


Gone Horribly Wrong

by splix



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, martin!whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.

*

 

Six hundred not-really-Hermès Birkin handbags, to be transported to Paris and sold via online merchants specialising in not-really-gently-used luxury goods at a cost of more than a thousand pounds per bag, plus false authenticity certificates and not-really-Hermès dust bags. Two nights at the Plaza Athenee waiting for the vendors to pick up the cargo, courtesy of his temporary employers. Two days of brilliant haute cuisine, heavy on the salmon _terrine_ and _crème Chantilly_ and light on the wrapped sandwiches and crisp packets. A handsome bonus upon completion of delivery. And, if he was lucky (and wasn’t he always?) two days and nights of _cherchez la femme_ as he waited. An easy job, some easy money, and if a bunch of silly bints were so eager to throw their money away without making sure their ridiculously overpriced bags were authentic, well, that was their affair, not Douglas’. 

Still, that didn’t explain the chill that travelled down his spine when the soft, silky voice of Eddy, the man in charge, informed him that departure must occur between one and three o’clock in the morning. 

“That’s a bit conspicuous, isn’t it?”

“How so, Douglas?”

“Well…skulking out at that time of night. Might look a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“Surely your charter passengers leave at all hours of the day and night. Flights are delayed for all sorts of reasons, aren’t they? You can’t get paranoid about it now, or you’ll start jumping at shadows.”

“That’s true,” Douglas conceded.

“Douglas, don’t worry,” Eddy said in a soothing tone. “The cargo’s boxed and ready to go. We’ll have the car meet you in Paris as promised, and all you’ll need to do is supervise the removal. Get lots of sleep, and we’ll see you on Tuesday.” 

“Right. Tuesday, then.” Douglas rang off and stared at his mobile for a few moments, frowning. 

Everything would be fine. Why wouldn’t it be? Douglas’ resourcefulness and font of fortune was bottomless. He ignored the chill and slipped his mobile into his pocket.

*

Eddy Groves and his three cohorts were already waiting beside GERTI when Douglas strode up, rested, dressed, and freshly pressed. Eddy was a small, neatly made man with dark hair and sad, deep brown eyes that struck Douglas as too large in a narrow, pale face, giving him the incongruous look of a homeless waif in a thousand-quid suit, but he smiled and thrust out his hand as Eddy extended his. “Right on time, I see.”

“Yes, indeed,” Eddy said, and reached out to flick a few drops of water from the lapel of Douglas’ mac in a gesture Douglas found a little too familiar. “Filthy weather, isn’t it?”

“Not to worry. We’ll be off the ground within the hour. Are you lads ready to flex your muscles?” He smiled at the three hulking, leather-jacketed men circling Eddy, who stared back from behind dark glasses. Dark glasses, at midnight. Douglas caught himself beginning to frown and crushed it. “How many boxes have we?”

“Nine. Don’t strain yourself, Douglas; my boys will take care of it all. Just get the cargo hold open and we’ll do the rest.” Eddy turned to the ‘boys.’ “The ramp, lads, and be quick about it, eh?”

Douglas looked at the silent men, then at the nine large wooden crates sat beside a dark oversized removal van. “That’s a lot of volume for six hundred handbags.”

“They have to be packed carefully. They –“ Eddy smiled. “Come on, Douglas, buck up. It’s fine. Off you get.”

“Right,” Douglas said slowly, and went off to MJN’s cubbyhole of an office. On his way, he risked a look over his shoulder. 

Eddy was staring at him, his eyes narrowed to obsidian slits.

*

Douglas didn’t frighten easily, but he felt a little…odd…about tonight’s job, so perhaps it was entirely forgivable when he turned on the flight deck overhead light and then jumped, emitting a strangled gasp of shock at the figure slumped in the captain’s chair. At nearly the same second, the figure sat up, yelped, and nearly tumbled out of the seat.

“Martin! Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?”

Martin’s crimson face contrasted oddly with his peculiar hair. “God – Douglas! I should ask you the same question,” he spluttered, trying to stand and failing. He scrubbed at his eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s twelve-thirty in the bloody morning. Now answer the question,” Douglas said in a hiss, glancing over his shoulder. “And keep your voice down.”

“Oh – it’s a long story.” Martin wore a crumpled anorak, ancient jeans, and battered trainers, and looked as if he’d spent his day with his van – there were grease marks on his clothes and a large smudge of dust on his forehead.

“I have all the time in the world, I assure you,” Douglas replied dryly. How in God’s name was he going to explain things to Martin, the self-appointed arbiter of all things aeronautically good and decent? Or worse, to Eddy and his…boys?

“I rented out the attic for the night.” Martin scuffed his toe against the carpet and feigned a yawn. “Sorry. The van broke down in the middle of a job, and – well, the clients were furious, and they wouldn’t give me more than half the agreed price. My rent is due on Monday, and one of the students wanted a bit of privacy for his girlfriend and –“ He broke off, flushing an even brighter red. “I needed the money, Douglas. So have a go at me if you want, but prepare for a battle, because I’m skint and exhausted and not really in the mood at the moment to take anything from you.”

Douglas sighed, glaring at Martin. It was true that eventually, Martin tended to grow on one. True, it was rather like mold growing on cheese, but the needful and symbiotic nature of a combination of mold and cheese could not be denied, and there were (admittedly rare) times when he thought of Martin with affection. But here, _now_ \- the timing could not possibly have been worse. “Martin…if I give you a few quid, could you find the energy to obtain other lodgings for the night?”

“I’d have slept in the van, if it weren’t stuck in Luton,” Martin said, seeming not to hear him, then looked up alertly. “You haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

“Believe it or not, it’s an even longer story than yours.”

“And you’re _dressed_ , too.”

“Did Sir expect me to arrive naked?”

“You know what I mean!” Martin jumped to his feet. “Did Carolyn put you on a job and not me? I told her I’d be working, but –“

“Calm down, Martin. I’m showing GERTI to some prospective clients, that’s all. A favour to Carolyn.”

“You –“ Martin narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. “Is that cargo I hear?”

 _Damn it_. “Martin –“ Douglas made a grab at Martin’s anorak, but Martin was out the door and halfway down the stairs before five seconds had passed. _Damn it all to hell_. Douglas followed as fast as he could, just in time to see Eddy turn and stare at Martin, his mouth a round O of surprise. “Martin, for God’s sake –“

“What is going on here?” Martin demanded. His spine stiffened in that _I-am-an-airline-CAPTAIN-thank-you-very-much_ way, and his voice climbed into a register more suited to a yodeler than a pilot.

“Who the fuck are you?” Eddy asked softly, looking from Martin to Douglas.

Douglas tried to explain. “Eddy, this is nobody. I mean –“ 

“What he means is that I’m Martin Crieff, and I’d very much like an explanation of what’s happening here.”

Eddy’s three brawny helpers gathered close, menacing in their black-leathered bulk, their eyes unreadable behind their dark glasses. “Are you a cop?” Eddy said in the same soft voice.

“God, no.” Douglas felt a fine sweat emerging on his brow. “Martin is my co-pilot, Eddy.”

“So what’s he doing here?”

Martin rounded on Douglas. “I _knew_ it! Carolyn did give you a job, didn’t she?”

“Martin, I implore you, shut the hell up,” Douglas whispered.

“Well, she did, didn’t she? God, Douglas! It’s not bad enough I –“

“You,” said Eddy, taking a step toward Martin, “shut your fucking mouth, right now.” He snapped his fingers, and one of his henchmen – you really couldn’t call them anything else, could you? – moved toward Martin, grabbed his arm, and twisted it up behind his back. Martin let out a cry of pain, abruptly silenced by the man’s gloved hand clamping over his mouth. He struggled briefly in the henchman’s grip, eyes wide and terrified, stilling only when the man twisted his arm harder. 

Douglas’ heart began to race. This was getting well out of hand. He raised his palms placatingly. “Eddy, let’s not go off all half-cocked, right?”

“I’ll give you half-cocked, you fuckwit. I didn’t think you’d be so stupid – or that your _spy_ would be twice as stupid. What were you planning?”

“It was an _accident_ , for Christ’s sake.” If Douglas started telling them the sad and preposterous story of Martin’s van woes, Eddy would probably have the thug break Martin’s arm. “He’s a bit of a berk, you know – flying’s all he’s got. Sad, really. He sleeps here sometimes. He won’t tell anyone, I swear.” He glanced at Martin, still helpless in the henchman’s grip, and saw, even through the fear, the hurt in Martin’s eyes. He looked away, suddenly ashamed. _It’s for your own good, Martin._

Eddy looked from Douglas to Martin. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Eddy, I swear on my life I’m not lying. Now come on, we’ve got to shift it. There’s crew out and about, and if we keep standing here, it’ll look a bit funny.”

“Would you swear on _his_ life?” A glint shone in Eddy’s odd, dark eyes.

“Wh-what?”

“Here’s what we’ll do…Dougie.” Eddy’s voice caressed the diminutive. “We’ll just hang on to your little friend until you come back and all’s well. What do you say?”

Douglas felt his mouth dry up. “Hang on to him.”

“That’s right. Keep him nice and safe. Just to make sure the cargo’s nice and safe.”

A sudden flash of insight sparked. “That’s not just fake handbags, is it?”

Eddy clapped softly. “Brilliant deduction, Sherlock, but only half right. The bags are there, and they’re fake, all right, but inside each one is six kilos of cocaine. That’s why the crates are so large. We couldn’t pack the bags flat. _Comprendez-vous_?”

“Christ,” Douglas breathed.

“Just so we understand each other. If you go to the police, Dougie, your friend – what’s his name again?”

Douglas wanted to vomit. “Martin.”

“That’s right. Martin. If you go to the police, Martin winds up in the river with a very big hole in his head. But if you come back, job well done, Martin goes free. Got it?”

Douglas heard a soft whimper of terror and forced himself not to look in Martin’s direction. He couldn’t meet his eyes again. “Got it.”

“Good! Now – Jasper, help Martin into the van, will you? And make sure he’s comfortable. You two –“ Eddy pointed at his other two thugs. “Get that last box on board.”

Numb, Douglas stood perfectly still as the man holding Martin dragged him toward the van and up its ramp. He heard a brief scuffling, and Martin’s voice echoing. “Douglas – help me! Please, _please_ don’t –“ A thud and a groan followed, and then silence.

“You’d better get on board, Douglas,” Eddy said. He patted Douglas’ arm.

Douglas shut his eyes for a moment. Finally, he turned and began to climb the stairs. Before he closed the door, he heard Eddy’s voice.

“And before we shoot him, Dougie, we’ll tear him apart. Believe it.”

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

_CAPTAIN COURAGEOUS: PILOT OUTWITS SMUGGLERS_

 

Not quite.

 

_I WOULDN’T TELL THEM ANYTHING: BRAVE MARTIN RELATES TWO-DAY ORDEAL_

 

No…try again.

 

_SAD BERK TRUSSED LIKE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, STRUGGLES FRUITLESSLY, CRIES_

 

Yes. Yes, that was more like it.

Martin sighed and rested his forehead on the cold concrete floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad, really, if he didn’t _hurt_ so much. The man who’d dragged him into the back of the van had thumped him behind the ear, hard enough to knock him out and to give him a stabbing headache; when he’d been awakened by the thudding of tires over a patchwork road, he saw the man sitting across from him, smiling and aiming a gun at him. Too frightened to speak or even beg, Martin had cowered in the corner until the van had stopped and the others had entered. They’d pulled his anorak off, wrapped it around his head, and dragged him out and into…this place, a sort of deserted factory or warehouse office, pulling the anorak off and letting him gape in silence and terror for a moment. 

Before he could even think to protest or argue, they were tying his wrists together behind his back with some horribly spiny twine that bit into his skin. The man who’d hit him reached out, tore his t-shirt down the front, ripped the entire front bit off, laughing at Martin’s squeak of terror, rolled it up, and shoved it in his mouth. Then he’d gone to a drawer and produced a roll of gaffer tape, torn off a piece, and stuck it over Martin’s mouth for good measure. He’d patted Martin’s cheek. “Keep you nice and quiet, love.” 

Then they’d pushed him to the floor and tied his ankles and knees together, and finally ran a length of the twine from his ankles to his wrists, pulling at it until he’d groaned in pain. They’d laughed and tied off the knot, and then just left him there, with mock-concerned admonishments to behave himself. He’d waited until their footfalls died away, then cried, sobbing until his nose was clogged and he was afraid of choking. Sniffling, chilled from his bare chest pressing against the cold floor, he looked around as best he could, but he wasn’t able to raise his head much, and even then all he saw was chair legs and the heavy mass of a metal industrial desk. The only light came from the door’s transom window, and it didn’t reveal anything except that he was alone, and in deep, deep trouble. Which was really very obvious. The tears started again, and he writhed against the ropes, succeeding only in making them tighter and tearing the skin on his wrists.

 _Calm,_ Martin counseled himself, blinking wetness from his eyes. _You’ve read the manuals._ He’d not done too badly on the skyjacking/hostage-taking portion of testing (after the first three times, admittedly) although to his recollection, the instructions had been a bit hazy on what exactly one was supposed to do after being totally immobilized by the criminal element. He suspected, though, that had the instructions been very specific, they would have been more along the order of “stay calm and collected” and not “cry and wriggle like a worm on a fishhook.” 

_Oh, God. I’m so scared._

But it wasn’t as if they actually planned to harm him, was it? What had the man in the bespoke suit said? They were just going to keep him safe. True, the way he said it had been about as sincere and honest as the man who’d sold him his (extremely, extremely faux) Patek Philippe (it had played the _Simpsons_ theme, for God’s sake; that should have clued him in) but if all went well, then nothing untoward would happen. As long as Douglas stuck to the plan, not that Martin knew what the plan was. Douglas never told him more than what was absolutely necessary about his little covert operations, but then, he was reasonably certain that Douglas had never transported…six hundred times six was thirty-six hundred kilos of cocaine before.

_Oh, God, oh God!_

He was sunk. They’d have sniffer dogs out, or…or cocaine-detecting robots, and Douglas would get caught, and it would all fall apart. They’d shoot Martin and then torture him. No, torture him and then shoot him. _Oh, God!_ He squirmed wildly on the floor. How would he ever, ever get away from this place? He was gone so frequently, the students who lived below him would never miss him. He hadn’t any removal jobs lined up. Carolyn and Arthur had some family do going on in Sussex. His rent grace period ended in five days, and by that time, his body would have already washed up on the riverbank, if they didn’t tie his ankles to lead weights when they threw him in the water. Nobody would notice his untimely departure at all.

Oddly, the person who would probably be the most adept at getting him out of this had got him _into_ it. He’d never particularly wished Douglas great success in the smuggling trade (not that he’d wished Douglas _ill_ , so to speak, but it _was_ illegal and not…not very nice) but now he wanted nothing more than a silk-smooth black market transaction and for Douglas to come back home and for the smugglers to untie Martin and let him go. Because his shoulders and wrists and the muscles in his thighs were really starting to hurt. 

Martin rolled onto his side. That took the pressure off his shoulders a bit, and he drew his knees up the tiniest bit to ease the ache in his thighs. Of course, doing that made the rope around his wrists tighten and abrade already raw skin. He worked at the wadded-up cloth in his mouth (with many regrets; that had been one of his favorite t-shirts, a Moby concert shirt properly worn and soft) but the tape over it wouldn’t budge. His head still throbbed from the blow (a blunt instrument, maybe the handgrip of the thug’s weapon) and he was cold (only the back half of his t-shirt covered him, and his anorak was a few feet away on the floor, not that it would do him a bit of good now) and he wanted to cry again, but he was too exhausted and dispirited to wring out even a single tear, so he closed his eyes and waited, wondering if they’d keep him tied up for the entire two days and how on earth he’d be able to bear it.

Amazingly, after about fifteen minutes, he fell asleep.

 

*

 

He woke with a jolt. He’d been dreaming; he was in GERTI’s captain’s chair, spruce and clean in his uniform and cap, and Douglas had been sitting beside him holding a huge silver tray mounded with piles of pristine white cocaine. Arthur and Carolyn had been there, too, snorting it up with what appeared to be rolled-up pages of the Air England cabin manual. He’d protested, and Douglas had given him that look of mingled patience and boredom. “Come on, Martin, join in,” he’d said, and as he’d torn a page out of the manual and rolled it up, Martin had awakened with a start. He’d blinked owlishly and looked around, and then cramps had seized his legs. He’d groaned and rolled onto his stomach despite the cold floor against his chest, and waited for the pain to subside. His headache was worse than ever, his jaw hurt from being stretched, and his wrists, knees, and ankles, still firmly pinioned, throbbed so badly it was as if he could actually see the pain, glowing red in his joints. Also, he was thirsty and he needed a pee. 

He closed his eyes again and willed the pain away. Unfortunately, it was utterly stubborn and refused to depart. 

So much for the power of positive thinking.

Gradually, an odd sensation started to prickle over his skin. It was the most peculiar thing, almost as if….

Martin heard his breath wheezing out of his nose, and the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. Was there another sound, almost beneath hearing? Slowly, he turned his head, and let out a muffled cry of startlement to see the man in the bespoke suit sitting in a chair not two meters away, watching him. Instinctively, he cringed, though the man was alone and didn’t appear as if he was about to hurt him.

“Hello there, Martin.”

Martin stared – no, perhaps gaped would be a better word. The man sat casually, a polystyrene cup in one hand, one leg crossed over the other as if he’d joined Martin for a friendly chat. 

“Comfortable?”

The manuals always said never to make eye contact with skyjackers if one could possibly help it – too often, eye contact was perceived as a challenge and usually resulted in hostage abuse – but Martin couldn’t drag his gaze from the man’s. He had dark eyes, candid and sad, and his smile, when he turned it on, was almost sweet. 

“Oh, stupid of me. Of course you’re not, are you? But I think you realize the necessity of having to keep you…well, contained.”

_You could have tied me to a chair or something. God knows I’m not going anywhere._

“My name’s Eddy Groves,” the man went on. “And you and the boys and I are just going to keep each other company until Douglas gets back safe and sound. I think that’s the wisest course of action, don’t you?”

Martin didn’t know if he was supposed to nod or shake his head or try to answer despite the t-shirt stuffed in his mouth. It was amazing that even in this crisis he felt like an awkward git. Not bad enough he’d had to rent out his attic room so that one of his housemates could screw his girlfriend in luxurious privacy, not bad enough that the bloody van had broken down in Luton, not bad enough that the customers outright refused to pay him the agreed sum (he’d only had a few sundries left on the van; surely they could have waited a day until he’d been able to fix it?) but he’d stumbled onto Douglas’ smuggling operation and now he was tied up on a concrete floor wondering if he could try to converse with a kidnapper through a mouthful of cotton and tape. His week was shaping up beautifully….

“I don’t know that it was necessary to hogtie you, but cheers to the lads for being thorough, I suppose.”

_Oh, absolutely. Well done, lads. Well done._

Groves reached forward, and Martin flinched. A smile crossed Groves’ face, and he clicked on a desk lamp, bright enough to make Martin’s eyes water. “You’re a little red in the face. Maybe you should stop fighting. You might as well relax. You’re not going anywhere.” His dark gaze traveled up and down Martin’s helpless body, and his smile widened a bit.

 _I know that, I know that, for God’s sake. It’s just that I’m in pain and I’m thirsty and I need to PEE, so please, please leave me alone and stop staring at me like that._

“Something wrong?”

Martin shook his head, the tiniest side-to-side motion, and couldn’t prevent a soft whimper escaping his throat. He had to pee very badly. _Oh, God, I’m going to wet myself. Christ, the crowning glory of the day._

“Ahh.” Sudden understanding flooded Groves’ face. “Do you have to spend a penny, Martin?”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, another tiny motion. He wasn’t going to cry again, not in front of this man who seemed bent on humiliating him.

“Right.” Groves scraped his chair back and stood up. “Well, we don’t want you pissing yourself, do we? Back in a flash.”

As the door shut behind Groves, Martin rested his head on the floor and moaned softly. It was probably a ruse, something to torture him. Groves would let him lie here until he wet himself, and then the thugs would probably beat him, just to have something to do. Psychological torment and humiliation, a major component of the terrorist/kidnapper/smuggler mindset.

But then the door opened again, and one of the men strode close to him, bent down, took out a knife, and cut the rope connecting Martin’s wrists and ankles. His legs thumped to the ground, and Martin whimpered in pain as blood flowed back into restricted veins.

The man rested the tip of the knife against Martin’s cheek. “Right, I’m going to cut your feet and legs free, but if you try anything funny, I’ll fucking gut you. Understand?” He patted Martin’s bum in friendly fashion and effortlessly cut the twine binding Martin’s knees and ankles. 

Martin gasped in relief and pressed his burning face against the concrete floor. Then the thug stood up, slid his hands under Martin’s belly, and yanked him to his feet. Dizzy, Martin swayed, afraid he was going to black out, and then crumpled on legs too blood-starved to support even his slight weight.

The man caught him as easily as he would a child and clamped an arm round Martin’s waist. “All right, come on.” He dragged Martin through the door and down a short corridor into a grimy toilet. Martin struggled to get his feet underneath him and then gave up, letting the man tote him along as if he were baggage.

Groves was inside, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, eyeing Martin with decided amusement. “Well, go on, Pete. Nothing you haven’t seen or done before.”

Without missing a beat, the thug – Pete – set Martin upright, held his arm with one hand to steady him, and unzipped his fly with his free hand. Casually, he yanked down the front of Martin’s underwear, grabbed his cock, and aimed it at the urinal. “Go on, then.”

Too shocked to react, Martin had been frozen still through this performance, but now he couldn’t keep his emotions in check. He bowed his head, knowing his face had gone pure crimson, and started to cry again.

“What?” Pete snapped. “What, for fuck’s sake?”

“I think our Martin has a modest streak,” Groves said softly.

“Oh, Jesus.” 

Martin shook with cold and fear and the awful sensation of the man’s hand pulling at his cock and trying to get him to pee. He sniffled, not caring now if he sounded pathetic. _I can’t, I can’t, stop touching me, oh God someone please get me out of this, Douglas, PLEASE –_

“Oh, dear.” Groves moved close to Martin and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth, then pulled out the shredded remains of the Moby shirt. “Is that it, Martin? Are you possessed of what some might describe as a delicate sensibility?”

Martin licked dry lips with an almost equally dry tongue. “I – I can’t,” he said, and half-choked on a strangled sob. “I can’t go if he’s…touching me. I’m sorry, I can’t. Please, please….”

“Cut him loose. Just for a moment, though, Martin. Don’t get any ideas.”

“No – no, of course not. I promise.” Martin fought to contain himself and maintain his dignity, like the manuals had instructed.

“Waste of fucking twine,” Pete muttered, and sliced through the ropes. 

Martin bit his lips as the ropes fell away. Oh God, it _hurt_! Painfully, he brought his hands together and tried to massage some life back into them. They were ice-cold and almost blue.

“Come on.” Pete prodded him. “Don’t stall.”

“Okay.” Martin took his cock in one bloodless hand and finally managed to pee. He re-ordered his clothes and stood in docile, absurd silence for a moment. Amazing; he’d learned how to become a prisoner with astonishing rapidity. They never mentioned _that_ in the manuals.

“Back to the office,” Groves said, and Pete grabbed Martin’s arm and hauled him out of the loo. Pete rummaged in a closet and came up with a large roll of packing twine.

“Oh, look,” Groves said. “You won’t run out at all, will you?” He smiled at Martin. “Sorry, Martin. Security measures. You understand.”

Martin nodded. Clearly these men were utterly mad. “Could I have a drink of water?”

Groves tilted his head to one side. “Mmm…no. Maybe later.”

“Please. My mouth is so dry, I’ve been –“

“Shh.” Groves moved close to Martin and laid a finger on Martin’s lips, then traced the bow with a fingertip. “Pretty mouth, Martin. But you’ve got to keep it quiet, don’t you understand?”

“Please,” Martin whispered. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Come on. You’ve only been here for –“ Groves consulted his watch, what looked to be a _real_ Patek Philippe. “Four hours. We’ve got lots of time yet. Tell you what – I’m going to go home and have a sleep, and when I come back, you can have a drink. What do you think of that?”

Martin pressed his lips together, stared at the floor, and nodded.

“Good boy. _Very_ good. You’re learning.” Groves tugged at a lock of Martin’s hair. “I always did fancy a ginger. And your collar and cuffs matched, I noticed. Now –“ He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and tugged down the remnants of the Moby shirt. “I left the other bit in the loo, but fortunately you’ve got more.” He twisted it into a rope and made a knot in its center. “Open up those pretty lips, Martin.”

“Please, no,” Martin said. “I won’t call for help, I swear.”

Groves shook his head. “Too many people near here, Martin. Can’t risk that, I’m afraid.” He pushed the knot into Martin’s mouth and tied the ends behind his head. “There you are. Pete? Just the wrists and ankles will be fine.”

Pete obliged, shoving Martin to the floor and tying him up again. Martin didn’t move. He was beginning to become thoroughly frightened – not that he hadn’t been frightened before, but these men were just…far too intimate for him. The manuals had never mentioned that, either, but he decided the best course of action was none at all. Or, which was to say, do nothing and take care not to antagonize the crazy, far too fondle-y, criminal smuggler kidnappers.

He lay on the floor, not daring to look up at them. Groves – at least he thought it was Groves – gently nudged Martin’s thigh with his foot. “We’ll be back. You be a good boy, quiet as a mouse. And just so you know, Tony is going to be right outside that door if you try any mischief. All right then?”

Martin didn’t move.

The foot kicked him, hard, sinking into the large muscle of his already abused thigh. Martin moaned loudly and curled up to avoid another blow.

“I said, all right?”

Frantically, Martin nodded.

“Good. See you later, darling.”

The lights went out, the door shut, and Martin was thankfully, blessedly alone. He still hurt everywhere, he was even colder than before, and he was no closer to freedom than before, but at least he was alone. He would be quiet and still and not make a fuss, nothing to attract attention. 

Inwardly, he began to recite the standard operating procedures manual. It would kill a few hours at least. 

Just before he reached “Captain dons cap, enters cabin to assist passengers,” he fell asleep again.

 

*

 

He woke up to silence and dimness, but a watery light from the transom lent a faint pale greyish cast to the office. Painfully, he struggled to a sitting position, leaning against the heavy desk. His thirst was murderous now, his throat and tongue dry and swollen. His hands and feet were raw and numb, but at least he didn’t have to pee. He rolled his head back and forth to clear the cobwebs and focused his aching eyes on a low shelf, just to have something to look at.

His heart leapt.

Sitting in a mug was a pair of bright silver scissors.

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

Douglas stared down at his _croque-monsieur_. Really it was the most extraordinary feat of French cookery, elevating the humble ham and cheese sandwich to the loftiest heights of flavour simply by employing the proper proportions of rosy ham, piquant, complex Gruyère, airy bread, and the faintest delicate drizzle of Béchamel sauce. 

Pity he wasn’t able to eat it. Nor had he been able to eat the langoustines with orange-saffron butter, asparagus mousse, and sweet potato puree he’d ordered for lunch, nor the dainty pastel-colored macarons in the ribbon-tied box on his bedside table. In fact, he hadn’t managed more than a few mouthfuls of sparkling water, and even that had made him want to surrender the contents of his stomach. He had been in Paris for twenty-four hours, his insides had contracted to a tight, horrid knot, and anyone who said that Paris was the epicentre of love and romance had been spewing utter rubbish, because the adverts and brochures never told you that if it wasn’t bloody freezing or beastly hot, it was pissing rain, with dreary grey skies that only made the city greyer and drearier than it already was. _April in Paris, my arse._

Despite the rain and because he’d been unable to sleep, he’d walked the streets, drifting along aimlessly, looking into the windows of expensive shops without really seeing their contents. The only time he’d taken notice was when he’d passed by the Hermès shop on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The windows had been crammed with an artful display of luxury goods, clothes and bags and scarves, and Douglas had felt the pain in his stomach double, treble, then spear upwards and down until he thought he was going to pass out. He managed to stand upright and walk with dignity, if not speed, back to the Avenue Montaigne and the Plaza Athenee, where he collapsed into a chair and wiped the sweat from his face with a shaking hand.

He’d put his foot in it. No question. In a life abundantly blessed by good luck and because of that, nearly immune to the sense of receiving special treatment – really, when one demands perquisites and pleasures and is accustomed to receiving them, it’s difficult not to take at least some luck for granted – he’d fucked things up good and proper. He should have done his utmost to keep everyone away from the airfield – everyone who might have been pushing and curious, at any rate. Arthur, heaven preserve his simple soul, would have stumbled upon the smugglers and offered to make them snacks, and if they’d held him hostage they’d have been engaged in a rousing game of Yellow Car by the time they got back to their warehouse lair. 

But Martin….

“Martin.” Even saying his name made Douglas cringe with shame and anxiety. Of _course_ it had been Martin who’d tripped and fallen face-first into this latest bout of rotten luck. Come to it, it was Martin’s spectacular bad fortune that had imposed itself on Douglas, not the other way round. Only Martin would have a story so redolent of piteous failure that it shot past the unlikely and landed solidly in the realm of the truly preposterous, and yet, knowing Martin, was totally plausible. Earnest, prissy Martin, with his manuals and his van and his bloody inner ear dysfunction, who got his nose out of joint at the slightest departure from standard operating procedures, who despite his pride in his captaincy had none of the hubris a proper pilot should possess in vast, overweening supply, was a golf club in a lightning storm, an ant under the magnifying glass of some cosmically cruel child, a field mouse cornered by a hungry barn cat – in short, a walking invitation to disaster.

And he was in desperate trouble, and it was all Douglas’ fault.

 _Sit tight, Martin_ , Douglas begged silently. _For God’s sake, don’t get lippy with them or try to do anything brave –_ Even as he tried to imagine this, Douglas couldn’t prevent a snort. Poised equally between two glasses of water, Martin would die of thirst and an agony of indecision. But still, with his luck, who knew what might happen? Eddy and his boys were ruthless. It had sounded as if they’d given poor Martin a good thumping to keep him quiet, and there had been a cold, steady light in Eddy’s dark eyes as he’d promised to tear Martin apart. The pain in Douglas’ stomach sharpened, and he bent over, breathing hard. _I’ll make sure you’re okay, and I promise I won’t torment you for at least a month. Just be quiet and still and do everything they say._

Douglas dragged his fingers through his hair, unwillingly conjuring up an image of Martin in the grasp of one of Eddy’s henchmen, scared and powerless, his eyes wide with fear and then hurt as Douglas casually insulted him. Christ, if that was their last moment together –

He pulled out his mobile and called Martin’s number. Maybe they’d let him answer it, just to preserve the fiction that everything was fine.

“Hi, this is Martin. Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff. I can’t come to the phone right now – things to do, people to see, aeroplanes to fly.” There was a lift in Martin’s voice; he’d smiled at that last.

Douglas wanted to cry.

“Please leave a message and I’ll phone you back as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye.”

“Martin.” Douglas’ throat caught, and he coughed. “Martin, it’s Douglas. If you…if you get this message, and if you’re in a position to call me back, please do so as soon as it’s humanly possible. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay. That is, I…I hope everything’s okay. Please call me.” He rang off and stared at the mobile, willing it to ring, willing it to deliver Martin’s voice on the other end, frightened and intimidated, but upright and breathing and….

He couldn’t think of it any longer. Moving into the immaculately appointed bathroom, he stripped and, placing the mobile on the polished golden edge of the travertine sink, well within grabbing distance on the second ring, he stepped into the shower and turned it on high. An obliging spray of hot water enveloped him from three sides, and steam billowed up in clouds. He soaped himself vigorously with some luxurious fragrant Parisian stuff, and felt as never before every shift of his body, the ripple of water against his limbs, his nerve endings prickling at the extreme temperature. He kept the water running for ages, stopping only when he thought he’d shrivel like a sultana. He stepped onto the thick plush bathmat, put on the heavy white towelling robe and slippers, and went back into his room to order a _croque-monsieur_ and a tall glass of Orangina. He gazed for a long, unblinking moment at the minibar, and then turned on the television. Letting his food grow cold, he watched French television, finally falling asleep as the morning sun seeped through the drapes and the dubbed voices of Bart and Homer Simpson resounded in his ears. 

_Va te faire shampouiner, Homer._

_Espèce de sale petit....!_

*

He awoke three hours later with a pounding headache and a horrid taste in his mouth. He reached for the Orangina, now flat, and sipped, then checked his mobile, afraid it had rung while he’d slept even though he’d turned the volume up to deafening levels. 

No messages. 

The sick feeling returned as he punched in Martin’s number again. 

“Hi, this is Martin. Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff. I can’t come to the phone right now – things to do, people to see, aeroplanes to fly. Please leave a message and I’ll phone you back as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye.”

“Martin, it’s Douglas again. Look, I know you might not be able to come to the phone, but if you…if anyone gets this, it’s very important that I speak to you. I just want to talk to you for a moment. Please…please call me back.”

What if they’d hurt him? Even…no. God, no, please no.

He punched in Eddy’s number and waited, and finally heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”

“Eddy?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Douglas.”

“Douglas! How are things? The driver hasn’t arrived already, has he? I thought he wasn’t expected until tonight.”

“No, he’s not arrived yet.”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” An oily film of false concern had insinuated itself into Eddy’s voice, all but coating the mobile.

“Not on my end, no.”

“Enjoying the food? The hotel? For my money you can’t beat the Georg Cinq, but I suppose the Athenee has its points. I’ve always thought there was something a little vulgar about it, though – all those blondes with excessive jewellrey and fluffy white dogs. Still, there’s Alain Ducasse and that’s all right –“

“The food’s fine,” Douglas interrupted, not caring how brusque he sounded. “Eddy, I’d like to speak to Martin, please.”

“You – you called me to speak to Martin?” There was a pause. “Douglas, even with the time difference, it’s quite early. I’m not out of bed yet.”

“I just –“

“I’m at _home_ , Douglas,” Eddy went on patiently. “You didn’t think I brought him home with me, did you?”

“No! No, of course not.” _Christ, I hope not._ “I just…look, Eddy, I just want to make sure that he’s okay, right?”

“Why shouldn’t he be okay? When I saw him last, he was perfectly fine, quite snug and secure. Don’t worry, we’re keeping him safe for you, Douglas. Just be certain that _you_ don’t do anything stupid, and little Martin will be just fine.” Eddy yawned. “He’s really a captain? And you’re the co-pilot?”

“That’s right.” For the first time, Douglas found himself bristling on Martin’s behalf. He didn’t like the way Eddy said _snug and secure_.

“Hm. I wouldn’t have thought it. He doesn’t seem the pilot type. Right, look. Give me two hours and call me back, and I’ll let you speak to him.”

A huge sigh of relief loosed itself from Douglas’ lungs. “Fine.”

“Not to worry. If all goes well, you get Martin back safe and sound. I have faith in your competence, Douglas.”

He didn’t like the way Eddy said _Douglas_ , either, or _Martin_ , for that matter. “All’s well on this end, I assure you.”

“Marvelous. Get some sleep, you sound wretched. Chat later.” Eddy rang off, leaving Douglas staring at the glowing screen. 

*

Knowing full well that any pilot who deprived himself of sleep was just asking for trouble, Douglas tried to catch a few nods, setting his alarm to ring at precisely eleven, but despite the tightly closed drapes, sleep refused to come. He stared at the soft backlit glow of the carriage clock beside the bed and huddled between Pratesi sheets, still in his towelling robe. He rang Eddy at the appointed time, growling a curse when Eddy didn’t pick up. 

“Hello. Leave a message and I’ll return your call.”

Short and sweet. “Eddy, it’s Douglas. It’s been two hours, and – well, call me back, please.” It took the most extraordinary effort not to bang the phone on the night table. He rubbed eyes burning with fatigue and waited.

A half hour later, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Douglas! Sorry about that, I was unavoidably detained.”

 _I’m sure you were. Miserable sod._ “That’s fine.”

“I’m just driving up now. I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous, that.”

Eddy laughed. “Isn’t it? Honestly, though – if this goes well, there’s no reason that you and I shouldn’t be able to come to some more permanent arrangement. More work for you.”

 _There’s nothing I’d rather less, thank you very much._ He couldn’t risk telling Eddy that now, though. If Martin was hurt because of Douglas’ carelessness or flippancy, Douglas would never, ever forgive himself. “Gosh. That sounds interesting.”

“And lucrative. But we can discuss it when you get back.” There was a scrape and a bang. “Morning, Tony. How’s our guest?” A brief mumble sounded in the distance. “Quiet as a mouse, Tony tells me. That’s….” Eddy’s voice trailed off.

Douglas frowned. He hadn’t lost the signal, of all things? “Hello?”

“ _Fuck_.”

Douglas’ heart dropped.

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

*

The scissors glowed in the dimness of the office, the curves of the grip as tempting as the sleek, shining, rounded lines of a new Gulfstream IV. Martin stared, hypnotized by their silvery sheen. They looked new, and therefore sharp. And they were close – less than three meters away.

He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. They shone so brilliantly, the Excalibur of scissors, the means to his freedom.

No. NO. Out of all the bumbling, foolish ideas he’d had in his life, this was without a doubt the worst, and if he made the absolutely brainless, witless, ill-advised, thick-headed decision to try to get them, he would probably end up slicing his wrists open and bleeding to death on the concrete floor, too timid to attract the necessary attention that would alert his kidnappers to his imminent demise, not that they would transport him to hospital. They’d just let him bleed out on the concrete floor and laugh at him, ha ha, stupid git, serves you right. Look, Eddy, we didn’t even have to touch him.

Resolutely, Martin turned his face away. He wouldn’t make the attempt. He’d sit here for another day or so. It wasn’t so bad. He didn’t hurt so much now that they’d left off tying his hands and feet together, and he could breathe a bit more easily without the wide tape covering his mouth completely. It was chilly, but not enough for hypothermia. He was still thirsty, but people could go three days without water, even longer without food, and Douglas would be back soon enough. He’d manage. There would be Words with Douglas after this, though. Martin wouldn’t _actually_ tell Carolyn about Douglas’ little jaunt to France (and God knows where else whilst her back was turned) but he wasn’t above a threat. Douglas deserved a bit of a scare after what he’d put Martin through.

Martin shifted miserably, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders. Why had Douglas called him a berk in front of Eddy and the other thugs? Wasn’t it enough that he teased and taunted Martin mercilessly – he had to kick him while he was down? It was like the worst schoolyard chanting he’d endured as a kid, magnified ten times. He’d thought there had been affection at times behind Douglas’ little jabs, but yesterday had proved him wrong. You didn’t say that sort of thing about a friend, especially not to nasty, frightening people who’d decided to take one hostage.

The worst of it was that if Douglas showed up now, with that odd cocktail of lackadaisical wit and dashing-pilot verve that he seemed to mix by feel, and untied Martin and hauled him to his feet, Martin would all but collapse in his arms out of sheer gratitude. Douglas was steady and reassuring; his quick thinking and resourcefulness had got Martin out of more scrapes than he could possibly count. Perhaps he’d only feigned disdain so that the smugglers wouldn’t regard Martin as valuable enough to be a hostage. Douglas was always two steps ahead of everyone else. Why that mattered now, he had no idea. But he hoped that was so. If the smugglers killed Martin, only Douglas would know. It would be nice to think that at least one person missed him.

But he didn’t want to die. It might have been his own stupid fault that he’d stumbled onto Douglas’ smuggling operation – he’d bloody well known Douglas was always at it, how else could Douglas have afforded his Lexus and lovely house, not to mention the upkeep of three ex-wives and a daughter? – but Martin didn’t want to simply lie still and wait for them to come and slit his throat, or worse. 

He looked back at the scissors, gleaming silver, beckoning.

_Oh, God…._

He hurt. There was absolutely no point in trying to fool himself. He hurt so badly he wanted to scream. The human body wasn’t meant to be held bound and still for so long. Every muscle trembled, every nerve ending itched for freedom. His feet were numb from lack of circulation, and the prickly twine had gouged raw circles around his wrists. His jaw was sore, his mouth was dry, and his throat burned. What if he just…cut himself free and stayed exactly where he was? Eddy Groves and his huge, hulking sidekicks would know that he didn’t pose a threat to them.

_Right. As if they needed to be told that._

Carefully, he drew his knees up to his chest, wincing at the ache, and planted his feet on the floor. Using the back of the desk as a bulwark, he inched upward, steadying himself until he was standing. He sat on the edge of the desk before his legs gave out, his breath coming in fluttery shivers. What if they came in and saw him? He’d be sunk. He couldn’t tell what time it was, nor hear anyone outside the door. 

_If they come in, I’ll just tell them I wanted to get off the cold floor, that’s all._

Three meters, a bit less. A matter of nothing to hop over there and grab them, and then with caution and dexterity – well, caution…a couple of quick slices and….

_And then what?_

Martin scowled. First things first. Getting over there, that was first.

He slid off the desk and felt the blood flowing down to his feet. They itched and tingled and finally hurt, but he waited it out, biting down hard on the knotted t-shirt in his mouth. _It’ll pass, it’ll pass_ , he assured himself, and when it finally, _finally_ did, he took a deep breath and flexed his knees a bit. If he was slight, he wasn’t without a certain wiry strength; complete and utter weaklings need not apply for a position as a man with a van. He stared at the scissors (they actually seemed to be _calling_ to him now, or maybe that was just the blood singing in his ears) and then took one small, tentative hop forward.

 _Oh dear._ Martin swayed a bit – it was difficult to balance with his hands tied – and then stood still. How many bloody hops to get three meters? He focused grimly and hopped again. Not bad. A bit better. He hopped again, a little further. Eight or nine more hops – God, he probably looked like a giant deranged bunny rabbit. 

Maybe he could cut it to six if he tried to lengthen his jumps. He flexed his knees and hopped again, landing with one foot flat and the other slightly bent to one side. He teetered awkwardly, listed to port, and felt a wave of dizziness creeping up. _Oh God, don’t black out now, NO._ He listed again, overcorrected, and crashed to his knees on the concrete floor. 

Twin spikes of anguish slammed into his kneecaps. Martin clenched his teeth on the gag, but a stifled wail of pain emerged nonetheless as he fell over onto his side and writhed, tears blurring his vision. He lay curled up, distantly amazed that he had any moisture left in his body for tears, and prayed for the agony to pass. His shoulder and elbow hurt now too because of his impact with the floor. Douglas had been right; he wasn’t just a berk, he was a _disaster._ He rested his feverish cheek against the cold floor and keened softly.

_Douglas, please help me. Don’t let me die here._

When his vision cleared, he saw the scissors, less than two meters away. He’d fallen _toward_ them.

Martin raised himself to the elbow that wasn’t throbbing and stared at them. They were _taunting_ him now, just daring him to get a little closer. Maybe if he just wriggled a bit….

He moved forward, grunting, ignoring the twinges in his body that ordered him to stay still. He dragged himself closer, panting, until at last he reached the metal shelves. The scissors gleamed in mellow triumph, seeming to congratulate him. They were just at eye level, if he sat up. He tried to get to his knees, but the effort sent another nauseating wave of pain up and down his legs. Had he broken his kneecaps? Who did that, for God’s sake?

Frantic now, he looked around for a way to get the scissors down. He’d wedge his head inside the shelf except the space was quite narrow and he’d probably get stuck or something horrible like that. If there was something he could use for – ah! There was an aluminium curtain rod on the bottom shelf a little way over. Perhaps his luck wasn’t all bad.

He leaned over and grasped it, then shifted back and maneuvered it upward, trying to hook the grip of the scissors. Sweat misted his brow as he gently moved the rod back and forth, up and down – and then the bloody thing slipped and knocked the mug off the shelf. It crashed to the concrete floor with a noise far louder than any common coffee mug had a right to make.

Trembling, Martin waited for angry voices and the tramp of boots. He held his breath. They mightn’t kill him for what he’d done, but they wouldn’t be best pleased, either; he could expect a beating at the very least. Long moments passed, but there was no sound outside the office. They hadn’t heard.

He shuddered in mingled fear and relief, and carefully groped amongst the ceramic shards for the scissors, nearly sobbing when his hand closed around them. _Come on, get a grip – you’ve still got to cut yourself free!_

_And then what?_

Martin ignored the question and carefully turned the scissors in his numb hand. He cringed as the point dug into his flesh and forced himself to move slowly. There – he’d opened them, wedged one blade beneath the rope. He took a firmer grip on the handle and closed the scissors.

Nothing happened. 

A little moan of frustration strangled itself in his throat. He’d turned the bloody thing sideways, hadn’t he? He repositioned them and tried again.

There. A little slice. Not much; they weren’t sharp after all. But Martin hadn’t taken his ATPL test eight times for nothing. If he had any virtues at all, patience was certainly one of them. He worked steadily, like a mouse nibbling at a nut, jabbing himself more than a few times, until finally, at last, thank _God_ , the rope fell away from his wrists. 

Another noise, this one of triumph, escaped him. He brought his arms from behind his back, heedless of the pain, and massaged his hands. He left his wrists alone – they looked awful, all raw and red, the skin torn away. When he felt a bit more normal, he reached down and cut the rope binding his ankles, gritting his teeth past the sparkling jabs of sensation, blood flowing back into oxygen-starved tissue. Finally he wrenched the gag out of his mouth and stretched his aching jaw. “Oh, God, oh, God,” he whispered. _Free._ It felt _glorious_.

_Now what?_

Now…. Martin glanced fearfully at the door, which had remained closed the entire time. _Thank you, thank you, thank you, God._ Maybe the smugglers had deserted the warehouse altogether. Maybe….

An ember of hope glowed in his chest. Perhaps there was a way round all of this –

“Oh!” Martin got to his feet, wobbled for a moment, then moved toward his anorak on the floor. He dug through the pockets, coming up with his mobile phone. He could have kissed it. _That’s it. Phone Douglas, then the police. Find a place to hide until it’s all over._ Eagerly, he flipped it open and saw a blank, black screen.

Maybe he’d forgot to turn it on. He thumbed the ON button and waited. The screen glowed, then flashed red. LOW BATTERY. RECHARGE NOW. Then the screen went black again.

Martin, who never used profanity, let out a long, low breath. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He hit the button again, and got the same curt message. “ _Fuck._ ”

Phone box. There had to be one somewhere. Or just some kind soul with a mobile – hadn’t Groves said there were people close by? Maybe he was in an industrial estate of some kind. Perhaps the call would have been useless – he’d no idea where he was and his cheap mobile wasn’t equipped with a GPS.

Of course, that would entail leaving the office.

He stared at the door, looming large and dark in front of him. What if those thugs _were_ just outside? They’d hurt him, and then tie him up again, probably a lot tighter this time, and they’d make sure he was a good distance from any scissors.

But what if Groves had just told him that to intimidate him, to make certain that Martin behaved himself? Wouldn’t it be awfully stupid to just sit here if there was a chance he could get away?

Martin swallowed. God, he was dying for a drink of water and something to eat. Anything – a packet of crisps, a biscuit, even Surprising Rice would do the trick. He laughed and clapped a hand to his mouth, horrified at the spume of silly giggles that escaped him. Post-traumatic hysteria, doubtless. The manuals had mentioned that.

He slipped his mobile into his jeans pocket and pulled on his anorak, grateful for its flannel-lined warmth. Tiptoeing over to the desk, he opened the drawers, looking for something to eat. Lots of people kept nibbles at their desks, but apparently the owner of this desk was an abstemious soul – there was nothing but paper and office gear. Disappointed but undaunted, Martin stealthily searched the rest of the office and found a small, unopened bottle of water behind a stack of A4. He twisted off the cap and drank the whole thing at a draught, careful not to let it crackle too loudly as he squeezed the last drops of water from it. He felt it winding through his abused body in a bright trickle, nourishing him. _So delicious._

Now that he was up, he couldn’t just sit still. He moved quietly to the door and put his ear to the old-fashioned keyhole. Silence. He peered into it, but saw only darkness. Maybe that was a trick that only worked in the movies. Would it be so awful to look out, if he was really quiet?

Martin shuddered, then carefully grasped the handle and twisted. It may have been old, but it was kept oiled, and moved silently, easily, as did the hinges. Martin opened the door a crack and looked out anxiously.

The corridor was empty. It was quiet, and totally, utterly empty.

Blood pounded in Martin’s ears as he swung the door open a little wider and slipped out. Soundlessly, he closed the door behind him and took two cautious steps forward. There was the loo door, and another that said CLEANING SUPPLIES, and two that were unlabelled. He took another hesitant step forward. One of the doors had a square pane of reinforced glass; Martin saw with a jolt that it opened onto what seemed to be the main room of the warehouse. And there was Tony and Pete and – and he didn’t know the other one’s name, but he was there as well, sleeping in a chair. God, they _had_ stayed the night!

 _Go back into the office,_ Martin commanded himself. _Don’t do anything stupid_ \--

There was a bang from the warehouse, and Martin saw Eddy Groves striding in with his mobile plastered to his ear. He wore a smart navy raincoat over another expensive suit and carried a very nice briefcase, almost as if he were a posh City banker rather than a drug smuggler. Martin had always imagined drug smugglers looking a bit flashy, with long, low sports cars and lots of gold rings.

Eddy was striding straight toward him, and his thugs had fallen in behind him.

 _No!_ Martin looked around in terror, then bolted for the last unmarked door at the end of the hallway. He tugged on the handle, his breath coming in ragged, panicky gasps, and then realized he had to depress the lever atop it first. He pushed it down, pulled the handle, and took in a dim alley - _outside._

_Oh, God, please –_

The sky was almost black and pouring rain, but he didn’t care. He ran stumbling down the alley, slipping on the muddy pavement, and turned a corner just as the door banged open again.

“There he is!”

 _No, no –_ Martin put on a burst of speed and ran almost directly into a wire-mesh fence. Without thinking, he hooked his fingers into the wire and scrambled up.

“Fucking hell –“

They were right behind him. _Please, no!_ He scrambled higher, reached out to grab hold of the fence, and closed his hand on something sharp. He let out a yelp, lost his balance, and fell backward. Hands grabbed at his arms and broke his fall. They’d caught him.

“No,” Martin pleaded hoarsely. “Please, no.” He looked wildly around, and saw a car park beyond the wire fence. “Help me.” _Louder, you BERK. Last chance!_ “Help me! HELP!”

Pete, his erstwhile loo tormentor, drove a fist into his midsection. Martin gasped for air as they dragged him backward, back into the warehouse, and flung him down at Eddy Groves’ feet. Martin saw a brief flash of rage in Groves’ eyes before the men fell on him, punching and kicking with ferocious glee. Martin crumpled under the onslaught, curling up to protect himself, but it didn’t help. 

“Little _fuck._ I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Someone kicked him in the chest, and he couldn’t get air. _I can’t breathe I’m going to die sorry Douglas I’m sorry—_

“That’s enough!” The voice came from a distance, as if Martin were at the bottom of a well. “Get him up.”

The hands dragged Martin up to his knees and held his arms. _Oh God I think I did break my kneecaps!_ He still felt the crushing pain in his chest. _Broke a rib, I think. Hurts…._

Groves was still on the phone. “You’re bloody lucky, you know. No, I’m _not_ going to let you talk to him, you fucking stupid sod. You ought to be on your fucking knees thanking Christ we got him back, because if the little berk _had_ got away, your fucking head would be on the fucking chopping block, do you understand me? Yes? Good. Good.” Groves’ face was white, and he was breathing hard. “Right. Okay.”

Martin gazed blearily up at Groves. “Douglas?” he rasped. “Douglas.”

Hard fingers dug into his jaw. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Martin says hello,” Groves said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Martin’s battered and bedraggled figure. “No, you can see him tomorrow. I’m very fucking annoyed right now, Douglas. Am I making myself clear? _Very_ fucking annoyed. No. No. If one more thing goes wrong, I promise your little friend is fucked.” Groves paused and gave Martin another once-over. “Right, I’m through talking to you. The next time I want to talk to you is when we see you back at Fitton.” He rang off and rubbed his eyes.

“What do you want us to do with him, Eddy?”

“Give me a fucking _minute_ , will you?” Groves snarled. “You bloody idiots can’t even keep a weedy little twerp contained for ten fucking hours.”

“You’re the one who said just wrists and ankles,” Pete pointed out. “If it were me, I’d have hogtied him again.”

“Oh, piss off.” Groves kicked a chair, sending it spinning across the concrete floor. He leaned close to Martin, slowly twining his fingers in Martin’s hair and yanking his head backward. “What were you planning to do, Martin? Were you going to go to the police?”

Martin stared into Eddy Groves’ dark eyes and shook with fear. “I-I- I was –“

“Because that was stupid, what you just did, Martin. Very, very stupid.” Groves’ voice grew softer and softer. “And I’m afraid that we’re going to have to make sure that you don’t make another stupid mistake like that again.”

Martin choked back a sob of pure fear. “You are going to get caught one day, you know. You c-c-can’t treat people like this and get away with it forever.”

Groves smiled. “Why ever not?” He slipped his mobile in his raincoat pocket, then shrugged out of it, draping it over a shelf. “Hold him still.”

The thugs on either side of him grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. Martin struggled halfheartedly. There was no getting away; they were going to beat him to a pulp. 

Groves’ hand moved to his trousers, and he unbuttoned them.

Martin watched, uncomprehending, for a moment. Then he saw a flash of pale-grey underwear, and realized what was happening. “No. No, no, no –“ He struggled wildly now, straining to get away, back to the office, flat on the floor, _anywhere_ but where he was right now, helpless as a pinned butterfly.

“Shh.” Groves laid a finger on Martin’s mouth. “As punishments go, it’s not so bad. You should see what they do to pretty boys like you in prison, Martin. You _are_ rather pretty, for a stupid fucking berk.” The thugs chuckled.

Groves lowered his underwear.

“Don’t.” Martin couldn’t breathe. “Please. Please don’t.”

“Open your mouth.”

Martin shook his head and folded his lips together as tightly as he could.

Groves stroked Martin’s cheek. “You do it, or I let my boys here do whatever they want to you. Bad idea, Martin. Tony acquired a particular liking for fisting in prison. Trust me, you don’t want his arm up your arse. It’s huge.”

Martin lowered his head. He couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ \-- not like this….

A hand slipped under his chin and tilted it up with surprising gentleness. “Come on now, Martin. Don’t cry, not yet.” Groves’ thumb brushed at the wetness beneath Martin’s eye. “You don’t want me to get violent.”

He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be hurt more than he already was. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

“Wider.”

 _Someone please help me…._ But there was no one who could help him, not now. Briefly, he twisted against the hands holding him, but it was useless. _Douglas._

“Come on. Wider.”

He opened wider. Groves pushed his cock into Martin’s mouth.

“Ah. No biting, Martin, or I’ll fucking kill you.” Groves put his hands on either side of Martin’s head. “Open your eyes and look up at me.”

Martin opened his eyes. He looked at what he was doing and gagged.

“Look up at me, I said.”

He met Groves’ eyes. 

“That’s nice. Good. Pretty blue eyes. Sweet mouth. Ah, God.” Groves’ cock moved back and forth in Martin’s mouth. “You’re making me do all the work here, Martin. Start sucking.”

It wasn’t happening. That was all. Not to him.

“Good. Good boy. That’s it. Fuck…oh, _fuck yes_.”

Stickiness on his face. A finger thrust in his mouth. Sourness, stickiness. He gagged again.

“Lick it off.”

Pale grey everywhere, except for those dark eyes. Burning eyes.

“I think I might let the lads have a little taste of you after all. No rough stuff, boys. You can fuck his face, but that’s all.”

Afterward, they locked him back up in the office. Hogtied again. Gagged with a flannel the ‘boys’ had wiped across Martin’s face, cleaning off what they’d done. Taped elbows, knees, thighs. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He didn’t care.

*


	5. Chapter 5

*

Given the fact that the last twenty-four hours had been a hellish nightmare, it was perhaps surprising that the trip home, by contrast, went terribly well. True, there was a five-hour fog delay at Orly, the lineup had been horrendous, Douglas was filled with nearly enough coffee to power GERTI without the additional encumbrance of aviation fuel, and a combination of dread, fatigue, and caffeine was hardly optimal for piloting a Lockheed McDonnell, but all that considered, the journey was surely a success rather than a failure. He ignored the hoovering on the sound theory that Carolyn would blame Arthur for the state of the carpets under any circumstances, locked up, and made his way to the office…which was totally dark.

Tamping down a surge of panic-induced nausea, Douglas fished out his mobile and punched in Eddy’s number.

“Hello?”

“It’s Douglas. I’m at the office.” _And don’t see you here, you wretched sack of dung._

“Right. We’re here, Douglas, don’t worry. I had the boys park just outside the airfield gates. Better not to attract too much attention, don’t you think?”

“Is Martin with you?” Douglas barked.

“For Christ’s sake…of course he’s with me, where else would he be? Are you coming?”

“I’ve got to get my car. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“See you then,” Eddy replied cheerily before ringing off. Douglas growled a curse at the mobile, then made a dash through the rain for the car park.

The windscreen wipers made a comforting metronomic swish across the glass as he drove to the outer gates, but even so, his grip on the wheel whitened his knuckles. He’d spent the last thirty hours, with a hard-got four-hour respite of uneasy sleep, worrying about Martin: what he’d done (an escape attempt, that was clear enough, and in his heart Douglas had cheered Martin’s courage even as he’d cursed his foolhardiness; he didn’t think Martin had that sort of bravery in him) and what Eddy and his minions had done to Martin in return (a beating, certainly, though Douglas hoped not too severe. Surely Eddy saw Martin as something less than a serious threat to his operations). Tickling behind that worry was the knowledge that Martin was suffering (not, Douglas hoped, too much) because of Douglas. And behind _that_ , perhaps worst of all, was the unpleasant and inevitable consciousness that his streak of good luck had reached its end. If Martin didn’t tell Carolyn about this debacle (and of course he _would_ ; Douglas expected no less) then he would likely have to endure Martin’s disapproval over every slightly to the left of legal piece of cargo brought onboard. It was appallingly selfish, but Douglas had made a nice little extra nest egg from his illicit activities, dismissal from Air England notwithstanding, and he was understandably reluctant to part ways with comfort.

But at least this particular ugliness was over. He’d drive Martin home, generously phone a vehicle recovery service for Martin’s horrid van, perhaps give him a percentage (a _small_ percentage) of the fee to persuade him to stay quiet and not open his mouth to Carolyn, and all would be well. 

He hoped.

There was a large BMW parked outside the gate with its lights on. Douglas slid opposite and got out. Eddy emerged from the car and popped open a large golf umbrella. “Evening, Douglas.”

“Hello.” Douglas peered into Eddy’s empty car and fixed him with a furious glare. “You said Martin was with you.”

“He is.” Eddy turned and waved, and a set of van lights came on. The doors opened, and the goons piled out, then pulled Martin out and yanked him over to Eddy’s car.

“Good God –“ Douglas recoiled. Even in the spotty Lexus headlights, he saw that Martin’s face sported a black eye, cuts, and a split, swollen lower lip. Martin stumbled, and as two of the thugs steadied him, he bent over a little, gasping in pain. They’d broken a rib or two, Douglas realised, and his hands curled into fists of helpless rage. The thugs stopped beside the car and grinned at him. Martin, imprisoned between them and looking worrisomely frail, more so than Douglas had ever seen him, cast his eyes down and breathed in short, shallow pants. “Martin,” Douglas said softly, “are you all right?”

“Oh, he’s fine. A bit worse for wear, but no permanent damage. Right, Martin?”

Martin kept his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t answer. Eddy leant forward and patted his cheek, and Martin cringed away.

“Leave him alone, Eddy. I think you’ve done quite enough.” Douglas hadn’t been in a physical fight in more than ten years and hadn’t had the urge since, but now he felt a sincere and powerful desire to beat Eddy Groves’ face to a bloody pulp.

Eddy smiled. “Yes, you might be right at that.”

“And I think you can let him go, now that our…transaction is concluded.”

“But that’s just it. We’re not quite done, you and Martin and I.” Eddy reached out, drew Martin away from the goons, and put an arm round his shoulders. Martin visibly flinched, but wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at Douglas, and held his body as far away as he could. “Jasper, pay the man, please.”

Douglas looked at the wad of cash the thug held out as though it were covered in snot. “I don’t want your money.”

Eddy smiled. “It’s not a public service you’ve performed, Douglas.”

“All the same.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Then let me be perfectly blunt.” Douglas bit off each word and spat it out. “You’ve hurt my friend, and I’m not taking your cash. And I’m afraid I won’t be available for future engagements either. So sorry.”

“Ah.” Eddy released Martin and took the cash from Jasper’s hand. He handed the umbrella to Jasper and moved close to Douglas, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then we have a problem. You see, if you don’t take my cash, then I’ll owe you a favour, and I make it a point never to owe favours.”

“Trust me, in no way –“

“I didn’t fucking ask you to speak, did I? No. You’ll take the money, or I’ll have the boys break both your legs.” He slipped the money into Douglas’ pocket and patted it, then moved back under the umbrella and put his arm round Martin’s shoulders again. “Job well done, Douglas. Thanks. Now both of you –“ He patted Martin’s bruised cheek, and Martin flinched again. “Listen to me. If either of you decide that the police should be involved in this little affair, then we have a _very_ serious problem. If you call them – if any of my boys are apprehended – then I’m going to personally make sure Martin suffers, and I’ll take you down for smuggling, Dougie. If _I_ should happen to be arrested, then you’re dead. Both of you. It’s only a matter of deciding which of you dies first, but either way it’s going to be slow and excruciating. It’s not difficult to find either of you. Are we clear on that?”

Martin lifted his head and looked in Douglas’ eyes. His face, battered as it was, was blank. His eyes were dull with exhaustion and pain and something else Douglas couldn’t identify. Too much fear, perhaps. Douglas shook his head slightly, trying to reassure Martin without words. _Don’t worry. It’ll be all right._

Martin looked down at the ground again.

“Are you having a touching romantic moment?” Eddy snapped. “I want to know if you managed to comprehend what I’ve just said.”

“I understand,” Douglas replied. He gave Eddy a look that would have turned lesser mortals to stone.

“Good. Well, Martin here has certainly kept us on our toes – I just want to make sure it’s understood.” Eddy reached into his pocket and extracted a smaller bundle of cash, then slid it into Martin’s jeans pocket in a gesture Douglas found unpleasantly intimate. “Your cut, Martin. Good boy.”

They all stood in silent tableau for a moment, the only sound the idling engines of their vehicles, and Douglas had a fleeting impression that they must have looked like a bad spy movie - _I’ve got the negatives, now give me the kid._ “I assume we’re finished.”

“I suppose. Though don’t be too hasty about refusing more work, Douglas. Think it over, at least.”

Douglas held out a hand. “Come on, Martin.”

Eddy took his arm from Martin’s shoulders, but Martin didn’t move. Eddy chuckled. “I think he wants to stay.” 

“Martin,” Douglas said quietly.

Martin took a tentative step forward, and Douglas moved to gather him close. Martin twitched away, opened the car door, and slid in.

“Bye, Martin!” Eddy called. He wiggled his fingers at Douglas. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope you rot in hell.”

Eddy shrugged. “Well, we’ll see. Good-bye, Douglas.” He stepped into his car, the thugs got back into the van, and both vehicles glided away into the rainy night.

Douglas got into the Lexus and switched on the bright overhead. “Martin, are you all right?”

Martin was turned toward the window. “I’m fine.”

“I doubt that.” Douglas put the car in gear and drove off. He kept one eye on the road, the other on Martin, hunched over motionless in the passenger seat. The adrenaline of the encounter was starting to wear off, and he longed to pull the car over and fall asleep despite the jittery sensation in his limbs and chest. _Far too much caffeine._ He stifled a yawn and drove grimly.

After five minutes of silence, Martin sat up. “Where are you going? This isn’t the way to my flat.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m taking you to Fitton Hospital.”

“No!” Martin’s body gave a convulsive jerk, as if he were trying to escape the safety belt. “No, Douglas. I just want to go home.”

“Martin, you’re injured. I can tell by the way you walked that they broke a rib, and you’ve no doubt other injuries that need attention. We’re going to Fitton Hospital.”

“No. Stop the car.”

“What on earth –“

“Stop the car!” Martin reached out and grasped the wheel. 

“For God’s sake –“ Douglas grabbed Martin’s hand reflexively and gasped. “Martin, your –“

Martin snatched his hand away and turned back toward the window. “Leave me alone.”

Douglas pulled over and switched on his hazard lights. “Martin, let me see your hand again.”

“No.”

“ _Martin._ ”

With a furious exhalation of breath, Martin thrust his right hand at Douglas. Douglas took it gently, pushed up the sleeve of Martin’s anorak, and examined the angry welts and raw red circles against the pale skin of his wrist. “You have to have this looked at.”

“If you don’t turn around and take me back to my flat, I’m going to jump out of the car and walk.”

“You can’t just ignore this.” _Your fault, Douglas Richardson. Your fault this happened to him._ “It’s going to get infected if it’s not properly looked after.”

Martin extracted his hand from Douglas’ grasp and folded his arms tightly together. “And what do I tell them, Douglas? What do I say when they ask what happened to me?”

“You can tell them you were…attacked. Robbed.”

“Oh, right. They’ll believe that.” Martin’s voice oozed scorn. “They’re not complete half-wits, you know. They’ll be able to tell how old my injuries are, and they’ll want to know why I didn’t come immediately. Then they’ll want to involve the police. And maybe you weren’t attending when Eddy Groves was talking, or maybe you didn’t take him seriously, because God knows you never take _anything_ seriously, but I did. I’m _not_ talking to the police. Now are you going to take me home, or should I walk?”

There were few times in his life when Douglas was paralysed by indecision, and this was one of those times. On one hand, Martin obviously needed medical attention. His face, his rib (or ribs; Eddy and his thugs had clearly given him the beating of a lifetime) and those ugly marks on his wrist (and presumably on the other) – all were awful-looking, and the last thing Martin needed was an infection on top of his injuries; on the other hand, he was right about the police. Martin was certain to crumble under direct questioning, and if he told the police, there would be inquiries. Eddy and his boys might be arrested, and Douglas had no doubt that Eddy would make good on his promise. Too, if he were entirely honest with himself, he had no desire to be arrested for smuggling either.

_Douglas Richardson, you are a low, cowardly, craven, white-livered sod._

Correction. He was a low, cowardly, craven, white-livered sod who was going to spend his life out of prison. He turned off his hazards, then swung the car round and drove back to Martin’s flat in silence and a shame so great that it permeated every fibre of his body with a low red throbbing. Beside him, Martin was wordless, curled up on the seat like a child.

Every light save the attic was on in the house Martin shared with the Fitton Ag students. A few people loitered outside, chattering and giggling and drinking beer, and the deep thump of dance music came from the open windows. Douglas glanced at Martin. “I can take you to my house, if you like. It’s quiet there.”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Martin.” Douglas laid a restraining hand on Martin’s arm. Martin looked at him, and Douglas’ heart contracted with guilt. He looked so…wounded. “Martin, I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I swear, I’d never….” He shook his head. “I’d understand completely if you told Carolyn. I’m so sorry.”

“Yes. I expect you are.” Martin’s voice shook.

Impulsively, Douglas reached into his pocket and pulled out the bundle of cash Eddy had stuffed inside. “Here. I don’t want this. It’s –“ _Tainted,_ he wanted to say, but didn’t. “You should have it.”

It was the wrong thing to say entirely. Martin’s faltering stoic expression collapsed. His eyes clouded over, and he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “No,” he whispered, then opened the car door and slid out slowly. He closed it firmly and headed for the stairs.

Douglas watched as Martin ascended the steps slowly, nodding to the students outside. Someone held out a beer, but Martin shook his head and went inside. Thankfully for Martin, the outdoor light was extinguished, so he was spared any concerned inquiries.

 _Go in after him,_ Douglas admonished himself sternly. _It’s your bloody fault he looks and feels so wretched – the least you can do is help to patch him up if he won’t go to hospital. Christ knows he won’t look after himself properly_.

He feared a rebuff, though. Cool, poised, charismatic Douglas Richardson, the very embodiment of unconquerable confidence and aplomb, was afraid that Martin Crieff would cut him. And Martin would be right to do so. Quite right indeed.

 _I’ll speak to him in a few days, when we’re back at work. Apologise and hope he doesn’t tell Carolyn._ But if he did, Douglas would accept it. Even if it meant Carolyn sacking him.

He drove away, toward home. On the way he called his vehicle recovery service and arranged for them to pick up Martin’s van in Luton and tow it to a garage. Douglas would pay all expenses. It was the least he could do.

The very least.

*

Five days later, Martin’s van wasn’t in the car park, though Douglas knew it had been repaired and driven to Martin’s house, and Martin was always punctual – indeed, early, boyishly eager to get into the sky. With not a little trepidation Douglas made his way into the office. Carolyn was there, a thundercloud on her brow. “Douglas. A word.” She pointed to a vacant chair.

The jig, as they say, was up. “Certainly, Carolyn.” Douglas seated himself smoothly and arranged a pleasant expression on his face. His heart thudded dolefully in his chest.

“First of all, Mr. Broughton cancelled for today. He, as well as nearly his entire hunting party, has come down with some sort of tummy distress and thought it would be best, fortunately for all of us, not to decorate the cabin with vomit. But that’s not what I want to speak to you about. I had a little chat with Martin this morning.”

“Yes?”

“Would you care to tell me exactly what is going on?”

Ugh. “I can’t think what you mean.”

“He came in looking as though he’d tangled with a leopard, Douglas, and announced that he was taking a leave of absence. Announced, mind you, not asked.”

Douglas felt the blood drain from his face. Relief, or more worry? He couldn’t tell. “Is that so?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know something about it. What on earth happened to him?”

“What did he say happened to him?” Douglas hedged.

“He _said_ that he was attacked and robbed, but you know Martin – he couldn’t lie if his life depended on it.”

Douglas winced.

“He’s almost as bad as Arthur, and heaven knows Arthur’s the worst liar on the face of God’s green earth,” Carolyn went on. “When I asked him if you knew, he squirmed for what seemed an interminable amount of time, and then muttered something about you possibly being aware of things. So I’m asking you – what really happened to him?”

Douglas could well imagine that basilisk stare intimidating Martin. How he’d have coped with the pointed inquiries of hospital staff, Douglas had no idea. “He told me he was robbed as well. Did he look dreadful?”

“Of course he looked dreadful,” Carolyn snapped. “Ghastly yellow-green bruises all over his face, and he walked as if his body hurt. I asked him if he’d been to hospital and he simply dodged the question. Terribly annoying. But why a leave of absence? Surely it won’t take him that long to heal.”

“Surely not,” Douglas murmured. If Martin was taking a leave of absence from flying, his greatest and dearest love, then things were quite bad indeed. But he hadn’t told Carolyn about the smuggling. Martin had protected him.

The guilt surged again, and Douglas covered his eyes with his hands.

“Douglas, what in God’s name are you doing? Pay attention, please. I’ve got to find a relief pilot as soon as possible. Cheap.”

“Did he say what he planned to do whilst on leave, Carolyn?”

Carolyn blinked. “No. Do you suppose that I asked him for a detailed itinerary?”

“Hardly. Did he say how long he would be gone?”

“Two weeks. Now may we concentrate on the matter at hand?”

“Get Herc.” Douglas rose to his feet. “Go snatch someone from EasyJet. Steal someone from the work experience queue. Really, Carolyn, if anyone can work it out, you can.” He closed the door on her indignation and strode to his car.

*


	6. Chapter 6

*

_Come on, sweet-lips. A little wider now. Come on, I know you’re gagging for it._

_Hold him, lads. Nice and steady._

_Getting tired, love? Harder. Harder, I said._

_Swallow it._

Martin awoke with a jolt of agony and struggled to catch his breath. He sat up, pressing a hand against his right side. It hurt badly enough to take his mind off the nightmare he’d just had.

No, not quite true. The nightmare was always with him. Five days and he hadn’t spent a single waking moment able to think of anything else. Even the pain, constant as it was, seemed like a fleeting thing against the red spikes of fear and humiliation that embedded themselves under his skin. But it was always worse at night. In daylight, in his conscious moments, he filled the hours with mindless, stupid television – there was a small, ancient black-and-white set in the kitchen, and he’d spent ages in front of it, watching news programmes, quiz shows, _Coronation Street_ , anything full of chatter, and he was able to keep the worst of his memories at bay – though they were still _there_ , snarling distantly, waiting for him to lower his guard. But at night, while he slept, they returned in full force, in horrifying slow motion, until he awoke gasping and shaking with terror, convinced he was back in the warehouse and Douglas was never going to come, never, and the men were holding him down and laughing and forcing his mouth open –

Martin pressed his hands to his face. How many more nights of less than three hours of sleep and terrifying dreams could he endure before he simply went mad? He couldn’t go on this way and function normally, and as for flying – that was completely out of the question. And that wasn’t even taking the pain into account. Loath as he was to admit it, even to himself, he knew the pain was getting worse, not better. He was scheduled to fly a group of City boys to New York in two days; six or seven hours of sitting still and upright would be utter torture. He had to see a doctor if he was going to be fit to fly.

Sighing, he felt his face with his fingertips. He hadn’t shaved since the night before he’d been kidnapped and had managed only the most rudimentary of baths, but it hadn’t been in him to take any pride in his appearance. He didn’t want to be a walking cliché, a non-functioning victim huddled in a dressing gown and weeping gently into a cup of tea. He heaved himself up, slung his threadbare dressing gown and towel over his shoulder (even that hurt) and headed down the attic stairs toward the bathroom.

Half an hour later, he made his way down to the kitchen, dressed in clean jeans and a comfortable pullover with the RAF emblem on the front. (He’d thrown away the jeans and anorak from the other night; he didn’t think he could look at them again without wanting to be sick. Besides, the anorak was – they’d –)

“Martin!” Stannie, one of the Ag students, greeted him with a smile. “Want some tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.”

“That’s very kind, thank you.” Gingerly, Martin sat at the table and offered her a wan smile. Stannie was nice – all the Ag students were nice, really. Mainly they left him alone, but sometimes they asked him down to their parties, even if they couldn’t really find much common ground with him. And they got younger and younger; it was amazing. They all looked like fifth formers to him now.

“Good to see you up and about. Feeling better, then?”

“Actually, not great. I’m going to the hospital.”

Stannie shook her head, and her unruly tumble of black curls bounced like a shampoo commercial. “Those tossers gave you a right going-over, didn’t they? I’m glad you’re going, though. You’ve been looking like shite, no offence. I’m headed that way myself in a bit. Do you need a lift?” 

“No thanks. I’ve got to make another stop. Thanks all the same.” He would put that one off until the last possible moment. Facing Carolyn would be far worse than facing a battery of medical professionals. He drank his tea, sipping carefully because of his split lip, and ate a Jaffa cake Stannie pressed on him. She left him alone and read a thick textbook, now and then pausing to underscore certain passages. Martin was soothed by her presence and her lack of prying. Finally he stood up, digging his keys from his pocket.

“It’s a bit parky out there, Martin. Don’t you want another jumper?” Stannie was looking at him oddly.

“Oh….” Instinctively Martin’s hand went to his ribcage. It was such a long way to climb. “No, I think I’ll be okay.”

“Hang on. I’ll fetch one for you.” She grabbed his keys and was out the door in a flash before Martin could protest.

He sat down again, but it didn’t help. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand, it hurt to lie down. He looked absolutely horrid, possibly because he’d hardly eaten or drunk a thing in five days, possibly from shock and pain, but whatever it was, he’d had difficulty meeting his own gaze in the mirror as he’d shaved. His face was a horrible greyish colour and it looked as if he’d crossed the line from thin to gaunt overnight. He was afraid they’d ask him questions at the hospital, but he’d frightened himself asking Phil, one of the vet students, what the possible risks of untreated broken ribs might be; Phil had delightedly given him lurid descriptions of animals with pierced organs, punctured arteries, and internal hemorrhaging, and Martin decided it would be worse to let it go. And James bloody Herriot, Phil was not.

Stannie came back with Martin’s thick oatmeal-coloured woollen cardigan, an unexpected gift from Carolyn last Christmas. Martin accepted it gratefully and pushed his arms into the sleeves, suppressing a groan. “Thanks, Stannie.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a lift, Martin? You look….” She bit her lip.

Martin gave her a tired smile. He knew very well how he looked. “I’m fine. Thanks.” He retrieved his keys and made his way down the outside stairs, holding the rail with every step.

*

The wait, thankfully, wasn’t terribly long, and he was in a curtained-off room within two hours, sitting on an uncomfortable bed and eyeing the doctor who pushed back the curtain, clipboard in hand. He was compact, forty or so, with greying light-brown hair. “Martin? Hi. Dr. Corbett. So, what seems to be the problem – broken ribs, you think?” He scanned the clipboard.

“I think so, yes.”

Dr. Corbett looked up at him and frowned. “I’ll want to take a look at that eye, too, and your lip. When did this happen?”

“Ah…five days ago.”

“Has it been hurting all the while?” The doctor set down the clipboard and washed his hands in the sink.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Corbett dried his hands and drew on a pair of latex gloves. “Can I ask you to take off your shirt and jumper, please?”

Martin froze. “I…I thought I’d get an X-ray or…or something like that.”

“Well, you might, though X-rays don’t tend to help us much where broken ribs are concerned. It would probably be a CT scan, MRI if things look desperate, but first I need to do a brief physical examination before I can determine whether we need to send you for a scan. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but probably not much worse than you’ve been experiencing thus far.” Corbett smiled. “Do you need some help getting that off?” he asked with a gesture toward Martin’s clothes.

“No! Er…I mean, sorry, no. I’ve got it.” Martin carefully pulled off his jumper, then grasped the bottom of his pullover and lifted it. _He’s going to know what happened._ He bit his lower lip and almost yelped from the sudden pain. He yanked off the shirt to disguise it and sat miserably on the bed, his face averted so he wouldn’t have to witness the intense scrutiny of his battered body.

Corbett studied him silently for a moment. His eyes flickered to Martin’s face; Martin could _feel_ the inspection, the wordless cataloguing of his injuries. Finger-shaped bruises on his face, his neck, his upper arms. The split lip. Cuts on his chest and jaw – one of them had worn a ring, and Martin had counted himself lucky he hadn’t lost any teeth. The angry, scabbed lacerations on his wrists from twine and tape. The blackish-red bruise from the kick to his chest that had spread out like a winter sunset.

Timidly, Martin met Corbett’s gaze and saw a mix of anger and sympathy – no, _pity_ \- in the man’s eyes. He looked down and plucked at a loose thread in the seam of his jeans.

“Right. Well, that looks nasty, so I expect we’ll be sending you for a scan, but in the meantime, let’s just take a look here. I guess I don’t have to ask exactly where it hurts.” Corbett stepped close, and Martin flinched. “It’s okay,” Corbett said softly. “I’m just going to press very gently. I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”

Martin nodded.

“Okay.” Corbett rested one hand on Martin’s shoulder and touched his ribcage. “Now, do me a favour? Breathe in and out as you normally would.” He nodded. “A little deeper, please.”

Martin had always hated going to the doctor. Aside from his inner ear abnormality ( _perfectly_ air-worthy!) he’d always been fairly healthy, but doctors made him anxious; they asked questions and made him perform, and Martin’s testing anxiety had never served him well under any circumstances. He took a deep breath, wanting to do well, wanting to be _outstanding_ , and a bright silver icepick drove itself into his side. He gasped and grabbed at the doctor’s arm. _Oh, God, I’m going to faint._

“Martin. Martin, it’s okay.” Corbett’s hands were on his back, supporting him. He was no taller than Martin, but he held Martin as easily as he might a kitten. “Here, let’s have a lie-down for a moment.” He eased Martin to the bed, fetched a blanket from a shelf, and covered his upper body. “I can do this just as well with you lying down.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispered.

“Not to worry. I’m just going to have a quick listen to your lungs, all right?” He smiled at Martin and set his scope in his ears. He slid the scope under the blanket and laid it against Martin’s chest. “Just breathe normally, please.” He listened for a moment and sighed, then took the scope off and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “Okay, Martin, I’m going to send you for a CT scan. I _think_ they’re just cracked, but we want to make absolutely certain.”

“All right.”

“Let’s get that settled straight away, then I can have a look at the rest of you while we’re waiting for Radiology to do their magical interpretive dance.” Corbett smiled and patted Martin’s shoulder.

*

He couldn’t think why hospitals had to be so cold, especially if they only issued flimsy gowns to their patients. Martin pulled up the two thin blankets and waited for Corbett to come back, dreading what would almost surely happen next.

Of course, it did.

“So,” Corbett said, pulling up a wheeled stool. “How did this happen?” He patted the side of the bed. “Can you swing your legs out for me?”

Cautiously Martin complied, shivering with cold. “I got –“ Martin took a breath. “Robbed. And beaten. Obviously. I mean – I don’t mean that in a nasty way, I just –“ He stopped and lowered his head. _One day you’ll just open your mouth and fall in, you berk._ “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Dr. Corbett didn’t seem offended. He took Martin’s right calf in his hand and lifted it, supporting his foot with his other hand. “Were you at work, or home…?”

“Um…at work. Why?”

“It looks like they decided to hang on to you for a while,” Corbett said, running his fingertips over the welts on Martin’s ankle. “Any loss of feeling in your feet or hands?”

“No. Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Have you been taking paracetamol or any other painkillers?”

“No, I –“ _I can’t afford it_ , he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t quite true, was it? He had four hundred pounds in his granddad’s old watch case on his dresser. Four hundred pounds that Eddy Groves had slipped into his pocket. 

His cut. He hadn’t been robbed; he’d been _paid_.

For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He gripped the blankets and closed his eyes, then shook his head. “No.”

Corbett had moved on to Martin’s wrists. “That must have been very frightening.”

Martin swallowed. “Um. Yes. Yes. It was.”

Corbett stood. “I just want a look at that lip, okay?” With the utmost care, he tilted Martin’s chin up and examined him. “Can you open your mouth for a moment?” He prodded a bit more, but gently, without further comment, and finally sat down. “Okay, Martin, I think we’re about done. I’m a bit concerned about your lungs, as I detected some fluid in them. When you’ve got a broken rib, you’ve absolutely got to breathe deeply to stave off pneumonia, even if it hurts.”

“Can you wrap my ribs?”

“No, that actually hurts more than it helps. The rib’s got to heal naturally. Now as I said, I don’t think it’s but cracked – still, we’ve got to make certain. Can I ask what you do for a living?”

“I’m a pilot,” Martin said, and at that couldn’t prevent a tiny smile. It hurt his mouth, but God, it was the only thing that made him feel human.

“Really!” Corbett smiled. “Civil aviation, or –“

“Yes. I’m a captain with a charter airline.” Airdot.

“Wow. That’s very impressive. I’ve seen those instrument panels and broken into a cold sweat just looking at them. Well, you’re probably keen to return to work as soon as possible, but that’s a lot of sitting in one place without moving, so I’m going to ground you for a couple of weeks.” Corbett smiled again. “We’ll outfit you with painkillers, and if the CT scan goes well, you should be as right as a trivet in about six weeks. I’m going to put a few stitches in your lip, too, and give you some topical antibiotic for those ligature marks on your wrists and ankles. They don’t really need a dressing, just keep them clean.”

“All right.”

“Martin, one more thing.”

Martin tensed.

“I want you to know that what I’m about to say is absolutely confidential, and you can tell me to piss off if you feel like it, but I’m seeing some signs of other trauma.”

“Like what?” Martin felt himself flushing. God, was it so obvious?

“Mainly it’s physical or emotional reactions to being touched. It’s okay,” Corbett said, “it happens to plenty of victims of physical violence, and you haven’t said so, but it looks like you went through quite an unpleasant ordeal. But I’d like to know if what I’ve seen is the extent of your injuries. I can do a more thorough examination if you like.”

“No. No, I don’t want one.”

“Okay,” Corbett said gravely. “I wanted you to know that it’s available, if you want it.”

Martin shook his head. “No. I mean, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not true. I mean, it’s – they didn’t – it’s not what you think.”

“Okay.” Corbett’s voice was soft. “I’m not going to press you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He got up and went to the cubicle desk, opening the drawer and shuffling around inside. He laid some leaflets on the edge of the desk. “I’m going to pop over to Radiology to check on the progress of that scan; I think we might be ready. Go ahead and get dressed. Take these home and have a look at them. There’s a bit about wound care, some breathing exercises and so on. And I’m going to give you a prescription for some painkillers, and some lovely samples to take home straight away. You _definitely_ don’t want to fly while you’re taking them, okay?” He smiled at Martin. “And I’ll give you a fit note for work. Give it to your employer and have them call me with any questions. I’ll put my mobile number on it. You can call me with any questions or concerns as well. Anything at all.”

Martin was heartened by his kindness and tact. “Okay.”

“Right, I’ll be back with all that in a bit.” Corbett patted Martin on the shoulder and left in a swish of blue-dotted curtain.

Martin slid off the bed and dressed slowly. He felt a bit better; Corbett might have suspected something, but he hadn’t pressed unduly, and after all, it wasn’t as if Martin had suffered any internal trauma. Perhaps he was being overdramatic about it all. Right now the whole thing felt hazy and indistinct, and he thought possibly if he could maintain his present mindset, everything would be okay. Maybe the painkillers would help with the nightmares, too; if he could sleep deeply, he’d be less likely to have bad dreams.

He picked up the leaflets and thumbed through them idly. Wound care, how to breathe in the event of rib injury, a leaflet on nutrition (that was vaguely insulting, though he supposed he did look undernourished). Anxiety care, self-help in surviving trauma, survivors of rape and sexual assault.

Martin’s heart stuttered and contracted in his chest. He pressed his lips together, unmindful of the pain, and screwed his eyes shut.

_It wasn’t, really. It wasn’t as if they’d…._

With slow deliberation, Martin tucked the rape leaflet between nutrition and wound care, folded the lot, and tucked it into his back pocket. He climbed back onto the hard bed and pulled the blankets up again. He was so cold.

*

The painkillers were doing a lovely job. Martin felt almost good; not high, but unconcerned about the pain for the first time, and maybe part of that was because the CT scan had come back okay after all – no floating bits of rib or punctured organs whatsoever. And Dr. Corbett had put two stitches in his lip, given him the samples and the medical certificate for work, and packed him off with a final offer of his mobile in case Martin wanted to talk. Martin had thanked him politely and left without so much as a backward glance.

The chat with Carolyn had been dreadful, but he’d managed. She’d stared at his injuries with a sharp, discerning eye and asked more pointed questions than he wanted to answer, but he’d dodged them pretty well. Only when she asked if Douglas knew about it did Martin falter. For a moment he’d had the urge to spill everything, to lay the blame squarely at Douglas’ feet, but something stopped him. He didn’t know what, he didn’t want to examine it or think about it, but he had an image of Carolyn sacking Douglas and Martin couldn’t…he _couldn’t_ do that to Douglas.

_Why can’t you? You wouldn’t have got in the whole mess if he hadn’t been mucking about with smugglers._

He didn’t know why. He just couldn’t, that was all.

Martin buried his head more deeply into his pillow. The leaflet said it was all right to lie on the side with the cracked rib, which he hadn’t done for fear of making it worse, but it actually did help him breathe a bit better. He’d slept a while and now lay in a sort of pleasant haze, for the first time devoid of fear. For days he’d locked his door, terrified that Eddy Groves and his thugs would come back and…hurt him again. Every noise in the creaky, drafty old house sent him into new paroxysms of anxiety, but tonight he’d left the door unlocked and not even the loud banging and thumping from below bothered him. Much.

He started at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A man’s tread. He sat up, wincing, and threw a panicked glance at the tiny attic window. He’d fit through it, but he’d likely tumble down the eave, fall three storeys, and break his foolish neck.

So much for not being afraid. He clutched the blankets and waited.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

Surely the students wouldn’t just let Eddy in without a fuss? And he wouldn’t be alone, would he? He’d have his flunkies with him, ready to do some more damage. Unless they had guns, and had forced their way in. Maybe everyone was tied up downstairs and Eddy had come to the attic alone, knowing that Martin would be easy to manhandle.

The knock sounded again.

Martin’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He heard his heartbeat fluttering rapidly in his ears. _Please go away._

The knob turned slowly, and the door opened.

*


	7. Chapter 7

*

Visions of a hundred long past but fondly, if only vaguely, remembered drunken revelries danced in Douglas’ head as he pulled up to Martin’s digs in Parkside Terrace. He sat in the car a moment, looking up at the house as a means of procrastination. He’d dropped Martin off a time or two when his van wasn’t working, but he’d never been inside, nor really given the place more than a glance. It had probably been quite pretty at one time, red brick with white wood trimming and a neat pocket-handkerchief-sized patch of grass on either side of the brick walk. But now the brick was faded and crumbling, the paint blistered and peeling, the charming mullioned windows were now mostly plate glass, and the patches of grass were sadly bald in spots. Still, that was student housing; as long as the shower worked and there was electricity for the teakettle and toaster, the students rarely gave a toss whether the outside looked smart.

Douglas inspected the façade of the house a bit longer and then heaved a sigh. He might as well go in; if he sat out in his car staring upward much more the students would take him for a stalker of some kind. He hadn’t the first idea of what to say to Martin; he wasn’t a planner of conversations, as such, and he’d already apologised, but…perhaps he could just say that he’d spoken to Carolyn and popped round to see how Martin was feeling. Despite Martin’s perpetual misfortune, he really wasn’t a complainer; usually it was Douglas who dragged the truth out of him. If Martin fell into a well, he’d have phoned Douglas: _Douglas, can I ask a favour? Could you bring a rope to this address? No, I don’t want to tell you why at the moment, could you just do it, please? Oh, for goodness’ sake, I fell down a well trying to move some farming equipment, all right? I think I’ve broken my leg, I need someone to pull me out, and Arthur’s not answering his phone. No, of course I realise that Icarus flew UP before he – oh, for the love of God, will you just come and pull me out, Douglas? There, I hope you’re quite satisfied…._

A soft chuckle hitched its way out of Douglas’ throat before he realised he was perilously close to tears. Scowling, he relinquished his hold on the wheel, forced the car door open, and got out. What in God’s name was he doing here? If Martin _had_ wanted to see him, he’d have phoned Douglas. Douglas had tried to get him to the hospital, he’d apologised – what more could Martin want from him that he hadn’t already done?

_Hang on. Martin didn’t ask you to come. You’re here under your own steam._

Well, it was guilt; Douglas was willing to concede that. Try as he might, he hadn’t quite been able to banish the way Martin had looked the other night, bruised and cowed, standing between the pair of crooks like a lamb who knew he was headed for a future as someone’s lunch with a side of mint sauce. And Douglas felt responsible for him; resentful, to be sure, but responsible all the same. But still, if Martin hadn’t decided to stick his nose into Douglas’ affairs –

_He’s your friend, you stupid, self-righteous prat. That’s why you’re here – because he’s your friend and you actually do care about him a great deal, whatever you might say or even do, and despite everything you’ve ever been taught, when a friend’s in distress you don’t tell him to pack up his troubles in his old kit bag and smile._

“Oh, shut up,” Douglas muttered. He slammed the car door and headed up the walk. The bell didn’t seem to work, so he knocked, and was rewarded a moment later by the sight of a simply gorgeous vision of a girl, all lush curves, toffee-coloured skin, and a cascade of jet curls. “Hello there. I’m Douglas Richardson. I’m a friend of Martin Crieff. I’d like to speak with him.”

“Ahh, you’re Douglas. Come on in, I was just about to take him a cup of tea and a nibble.” The girl stood aside so Douglas could enter, and she shut the door and beckoned him into a dilapidated kitchen. “So you’re his first officer, then? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m flattered,” Douglas said, wryly noting that even Martin’s lovely housemate knew he was unquestionably the _captain_. 

“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to a chair. “I’m Stannie. You’re quite lucky, actually – Martin just got back about an hour ago. Went to hospital.”

Warm relief flooded Douglas’ heart. “Did he? I’m glad to hear it.”

“High time, too. God, the sight of him, poor thing!” She looked over her shoulder at Douglas. “You look all right. You weren’t there when the place got robbed, then?”

Douglas wondered what sort of cock-and-bull story Martin had served up to her. “Ah – no. I’d left a while earlier. Frightfully lucky for me – not so much for Martin.”

Stannie clattered dishes in the sink. “What did they take?”

“What?” Douglas started.

“Martin said your airline got robbed. What did they take?”

“Oh – some petty cash, a few trinkets here and there.” A nasty pang of icy guilt stabbed into Douglas’ chest and lodged there, obliterating the relief he’d felt a moment ago. He hadn’t fully appreciated the extent to which Martin was willing to lie for him. “Not much value, when you come right down to it.”

“God, poor Martin,” Stannie sighed, and set a mug of tea on a tray along with a little jug of milk, a bit of sugar in a twist of a paper napkin, and a bowl of what looked like mulligatawny soup and a slice of buttered bread on a plate. “I can’t remember if he likes sugar or not, so I didn’t put any in,” she said apologetically. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind taking it up to him, if you’re going to have a chat? He looked all done in when he arrived – could barely drag himself up the stairs.”

“It’s awfully kind of you to feed him up.” Douglas gave her a speculative look.

“I just feel bad for him, that’s all. You’re the first person who’s ever come to see him – as far as I’ve noticed, anyway. He could do with a friend. He’ll be glad you came.” She smiled at him. “It’s ready to go if you don’t mind hauling it.”

“Of course not, I’d be delighted.” Douglas stood and took the tray, reasonably certain he could lug it up a few flights of stairs. “It was lovely to meet you, Stannie.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Douglas. Martin thinks the world of you.” She sat at the table, gave him another brilliant grin, and buried her nose in a gigantic textbook.

 _Now what did that mean?_ Douglas wondered as he carried the tray up four increasingly narrow and rickety flights of stairs. He had a difficult time imagining Martin being effusive about him, or anyone or anything other than flying. Perhaps she was just being friendly, encouraging him because he was the first visitor of Martin’s she’d ever seen. A bit sad, that.

Douglas got the tray up the stairs without spilling a single drop of soup or tea or upsetting the bread. If Arthur ever decided to leave the glamorous world of airdot stewards, Douglas could always take it up as a sideline. He shifted the tray to one arm, panting a little (all those bloody stairs! No wonder Martin was as thin as a pin), and knocked softly. 

There was no answer. Douglas waited a bit, then knocked again.

Nothing.

Perhaps Martin was asleep. Douglas thought about turning round and going back downstairs, then decided against it. He grasped the doorknob and tried it. It turned reluctantly in his hand. He pushed the door open as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb Martin’s slumber; he’d just leave the tray and head out.

The room was dark, and it took Douglas a moment to see that Martin was sat up in bed, huddled in the blankets of his single bed tucked under the eaves, cowering against the wall and staring at him as if he were Satan incarnate. “Martin?”

A deep, shivering intake of breath came from the figure on the bed. “Douglas?”

“Yes. Are you all right?”

“Er…yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just – I didn’t know who you were at first, that’s all.”

“I’ve brought you some tea. Have you got a light in here?”

There was another shuddering breath. “Right beside the door.”

Douglas found the light switch and turned it on. A single bare bulb abruptly glared an unfriendly and unflattering yellow from a chain in the middle of the long, narrow attic room. Douglas took a quick look round and got a fleeting impression of secondhand-shop furniture, stacks of books, and a myriad of aviation posters covering astonishingly hideous flowered wallpaper that some Swinging Sixties individual had made a hash of gluing up in an effort to make the attic mod and gear and groovy. The squalor of it made Douglas turn away. He focused his attention on Martin and proffered the tray. “Your very attractive housemate Stannie prepared tea and soup for you, and I just happened to stop by. Hungry?”

“Yes,” Martin replied quietly. “I am, a bit.”

Douglas looked for a table and found none. He settled for dragging a spindly chair next to the bed and set the tray on it after pushing aside a discarded pair of jeans. “Here we are. A repast fit for a king.” He thought of the langoustines he hadn’t eaten in Paris, and his stomach clenched unpleasantly. 

“That looks lovely.” Martin slid over on the bed. “Here, sit down. I think it’ll support both of us.” He gave Douglas a weary smile.

Douglas was about to refuse, then decided to stay, just for a moment. Just to make sure Martin was all right. “Thank you. I hear you went to the hospital.”

“Yes.” Martin took a careful spoonful of soup.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Douglas picked up the napkin with its sugar twisted inside. He could have told Stannie that Martin liked two sugars and generous lashings of milk. He poured the sugar in the tea and stirred briskly, then added the milk. “And what’s the prognosis?”

“Two cracked ribs, some bruising obviously, but nothing permanent. I got some painkillers and some antibiotics.”

“I see.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Martin sipped at his tea. “It was good of you to come and see me. I thought you were flying Eric Broughton to Perthshire.”

“Yes, that was in the plan. Unfortunately, Mr. Broughton came down with a bit of tummy distress, and so the bucks and bunnies of Scotland are providentially safe. Until next week, most likely.”

“Perhaps we can warn them.”

“I rather think Mr. Broughton’s shooting skills will take care of that in any event.”

Martin smiled into his tea, and Douglas had the oddest impulse to lean close and kiss him. In fact, he experienced a distinct and wholly shocking response from John Thomas, who seemed to agree.

_Good God. Where did that come from?_

Thoroughly disconcerted, Douglas got to his feet and moved close to one of Martin’s posters, affecting to study it while Martin continued to eat. Where on _earth_ had that come from? Granted, it wasn’t the first time Douglas had exhibited a preference for the male persuasion (nor the second, nor the twentieth or fiftieth, to be perfectly candid – Douglas considered himself agreeable to most pleasures, provided the timing was right) – but Martin? Martin was hardly his type. Douglas’ experience and inclinations leaned toward fellow sky gods, attractive and confident with not a little touch of laissez-faire, rather like Douglas himself. Well, he never said he wasn’t narcissistic, really.

But Martin?

Douglas turned and surreptitiously examined Martin. Funny how a person grew on one. Martin was small-boned, slight really, and no-one would accuse him of being magazine-model material with that shock of ginger hair and long, bony face…but it was a nice face, upon further consideration, the sort one didn’t grow tired of. His tip-tilted blue eyes always brimmed with emotion of one kind or another, and his mouth, when it wasn’t swollen and split, was rather pleasant to look at with its deep bow and full lower lip. Quite handsome, actually.

_Get ahold of yourself, Douglas Richardson, immediately._

“How’s the soup?”

“Oh, it’s lovely. Did Stannie make it?”

“I think it came from Tesco, to be frank, but it smells quite nice.” Douglas sighed. “Martin, listen. About the other night –“

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“But I do. Look, I spoke to Carolyn, and to your housemate. I know you covered for me.”

Martin shrugged. 

“Why?”

Martin set his empty soup bowl on the tray. “Do we have to discuss this now, Douglas?”

“I’m curious, that’s all. For all that I appear to be blissfully unaware of favours done for me, Martin, I am in fact quite conscious that you were under no obligation to conceal my activities. In further point of fact, you’d have been perfectly within your rights to have me sacked.”

“I….”

“Particularly after what you endured.”

Martin stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about what they did to you, Martin, after you tried to escape. God – I really wish you hadn’t.”

Martin wrapped his arms around himself. “Yes, I know.”

“Not that it wasn’t brave, mind you, but what were you thinking?”

“I thought I could phone you, and then phone the police.” Martin took another shivering breath. “Douglas, I really don’t –“

Douglas moved back toward the bed. “Martin, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’d never have had that happen to you. I know you must be furious with me, which is why I’m positively astounded that you took it upon yourself to protect me, but I want you to know that I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.” He knelt beside the bed and rested his hand upon Martin’s, briefly squeezing his fingers, trying not to see the ugly rope burns on Martin’s wrist. “If there’s anything I can do to make amends – anything at all – just say the word.” He took a deep breath and waited.

Martin looked down at Douglas’ hand. His mouth trembled, and he blinked hard. “I’m not angry at you, Douglas. I know it wasn’t your – I mean, I know you didn’t mean for it to happen.” Timidly, he brought his other hand round and patted Douglas’. 

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No,” Martin said quietly. “No, but thank you. I know you arranged to have my van fixed and brought back. I appreciate that.”

“Think nothing of it.” Douglas stifled the impulse to touch Martin’s cheek. _God, isn’t he lovely._ He drew back and got to his feet. “It’s getting dark. I’ll let you sleep.”

Martin smiled up at him, wincing slightly. “Damn lip. Thank you. Would you take the tray down?”

“Of course.” Douglas picked up the empty tray and inadvertently pushed the jeans onto the floor. Paper fluttered from the pockets. “Oh dear. Sorry, let me get that.”

“No, I’ll – “ Martin leaned forward, then hissed with pain and grabbed his ribs. “God.”

“Not to worry.” Douglas set the tray down and picked up four or five different coloured leaflets. “Oh, dreary hospital instructions.”

“Douglas –“

“Isn’t it the height of fun? Oh – wound care. Gosh, that’s some lovely light reading. Proper nutrition – surprising rice and cheese tray dregs not included.” Douglas chuckled.

Martin leaned against the wall, looking utterly miserable. “Douglas, please,” he whispered.

“Trauma, well, yes, r –“ Douglas stopped and stared at the last leaflet. The words printed on the paper glared up at him. He took a breath, but it seemed devoid of oxygen. He turned toward Martin, whose face was white with two hectic spots of color on his cheeks. He tried to say Martin’s name and failed.

“They’re just a bunch of – I mean, I think it’s standard issue for people who, um…I….” Martin looked around the room as if his meager possessions would somehow protect him. “It’s not what you think.”

A vast and deep chill permeated Douglas’ bones. “Then why do you have this?”

“They just _gave_ it to me, for God’s sake. It’s not – “ Martin twisted his arms together in front and pulled them close as if trying to hide as much of himself as possible. “The doctor just pulled a handful of leaflets from a drawer and gave them to me. It’s nothing, really.”

“Martin –“

“It’s _nothing._ ” Martin’s breathing was becoming ragged. “Honestly, Douglas.” He looked down and grasped the blankets with restless hands. 

Douglas saw a tear slide down Martin’s nose. He saw, beneath the pale skin, the blue shadows beneath his eyes that underscored a tremendous loss of sleep. He remembered Martin’s fear as he stood between the two goons, the fear as Douglas opened his attic-room door. He saw the trembling, thin fingers, the cruel marks on his wrists, the shaking lips, and _knew_. “Oh, dear God,” he whispered. “Christ almighty.”

“Douglas, I’m really…very tired.” Martin’s voice was a low rasp. “I think I need to sleep.”

“Martin.” Douglas stood rooted to the spot. “Martin….”

“ _Please_ , Douglas,” Martin begged, “please go. I can’t…I can’t….” He covered his face with his hands. He didn’t move; no sound emerged from behind his fingers.

A huge, throbbing thud hammered in Douglas’ ears. Mechanically, he set the leaflets down and picked up the tray again. “Martin.” _Is that all you can say, you stupid, STUPID arsehole?_

Martin turned toward the wall and lay down, curled beneath the blankets.

_Go to him. Say something. Anything, for Christ’s sake._

Douglas tried to speak and couldn’t. His throat was like sandpaper, his tongue like iron. Guilt and shame strangled him into silence and immobility. It was an age before he could back out of the room and quietly click off the light. He trudged downstairs and took the tray into the kitchen.

Stannie was still at the table, reading. She looked up. “How’s he doing? A bit better with the painkillers, I hope?”

Douglas set the tray on the table. “Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, I think so.”

“He ate everything – good on him.”

“Yes, it was very good of you. I must go.” Douglas turned and moved toward the door like a somnambulist.

“Nice to meet you!” Stannie called, but Douglas didn’t respond. He fumbled with the door until it opened, went down the walk, and thumbed off the car alarm. He sat in the Lexus until the trembling in his hands subsided and his vision cleared, not caring that he was attracting odd looks from the students in the house.

He started the car and put it into gear, driving off slowly. He opened the windows for air and tried to concentrate on the road.

_Rape and sexual assault._

He passed a shaking hand over his mouth and distantly wondered if he was going to be sick. He felt weak, as if all his cells were shrivelling. Had he been clearer, thinking sharply as was his wont, he would have been frightened, but his despair and desolation were so profound he was nearly insensate.

_Martin._

What they’d done to him. Those _bastards._

He had murder in his heart. 

_Find Eddy Groves. Tear his throat out with your bare hands._

Some kernel of pragmatism implanted itself amongst the rage and hatred. _Stupid, stupid. There are four of them and one of you. They’ll kill you. Get hold of yourself._

He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t just get hold of himself, couldn’t be cool, competent Douglas Richardson, quick with a riposte and a solution for every problem. Not now.

_Your fault._

He felt sick again. 

A light shone alongside the road. Convenience store. He pulled in, feeling a siren call he dared not name. He moved toward the counter, gestured with a hand whose shaking he managed to control. Just.

Douglas left the store clasping the bottle of Talisker close, cradled like the most precious of treasures.

*


	8. Chapter 8

*

Despite the painkillers, despite the exhaustion that seemed to permeate every last fiber of his body, Martin lay wakeful in the dark for a long time, staring at the wall in silent, dry-eyed, tight-throated misery and bitter disappointment.

He didn’t blame Douglas for his speechlessness. Martin couldn’t imagine himself saying anything helpful had Douglas revealed something similar (not that Martin had done a very good job of denying anything). What did one say to something like that? Martin hadn’t the least desire to rehash a single moment of his ordeal; his memory was doing quite well on its own, too bloody well, bringing unbidden images of what had happened, what they’d done to him, what they’d made him do.

 _Stupid, stupid. Why couldn’t you have stayed where you were? Why do you always, always have to do the precisely wrong thing at the wrong moment?_ It was why he’d wound up sleeping in the plane, why he’d charged into a dangerous situation and blithely ignored Douglas’ warnings, why he’d insisted on trying to escape when the prudent thing would have been to stay still, why they’d taken their rage out on him. It was why he was alone now.

He hadn’t wanted Douglas to leave, but one look at Douglas’ white, strained face, the obvious shock and…was it disgust? Martin thought perhaps it was – and the shame flared up, constricting his lungs and stomach, and he couldn’t bear to have Douglas look at him like that. Only a moment before Douglas had been so comforting and – and warm, and when he’d laid his hand atop Martin’s, Martin had wanted to melt, it had felt so _good_ , so strong and safe. But then – he should have torn up the bloody leaflet, or left it on the bed as a pointed no-thank-you to nosy sodding Dr. Corbett, but no, another situation to which he applied his vast and singular talent for destroying everything he touched – his stammered denials proved ever so much more effective than a simple _Yes, Douglas, they sexually assaulted me_ would have done. And so Douglas had left…but hadn’t he wanted to stay? Wasn’t he on the verge of saying something when Martin had begged him to leave?

It didn’t matter now. None of it did.

Martin lay still, his mind and body joined together in numb, heavy listlessness. He couldn’t go on like this forever. At some point he’d have to get up, go back to work, pretend everything was perfectly all right, and conduct himself as if nothing had happened. He didn’t want sympathy; he didn’t want to be a victim. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, powerless and afraid.

He turned over in bed, groaning at the dull throb in his ribs. He was lucky he hadn’t got kicked harder, he supposed; he couldn’t imagine the pain of having them snapped or shattered. He curled up and stared round his room, illuminated by the street light glowing faintly through his little window innocent of curtains. A fresh pang of shame pierced his middle as he looked about. How tawdry it was with its charity-shop furnishings and posters and stacks of books – the room of a poverty-stricken, sad, and pathetically lonely man. Small wonder Douglas had bolted.

Martin squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to them. His black eye still ached a little; he pulled his hand away and stared at the room again. Ordinarily Douglas would have made a crack about the place. _Terribly charming, Martin. Where do the vermin sleep? Really, Martin, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Now I’ll have to be certain to tip the servants a bit extra. A chair AND a bed? Such enormous choice, I’m dazzled. Goodness, it’s the very pinnacle of luxury. Honestly, Versailles has nothing on Chez Martin._ The fact that he hadn’t spoke volumes. He’d wanted to get away as fast as possible. 

His gaze settled on the leaflets Douglas had set gingerly upon the chair. 

The rape leaflet lay on top, an innocent pale green sheet of folded and printed paper, but Martin eyed it as if it were a coiled and hissing snake. He didn’t want to read it. It would stir up things best consigned to forgetfulness; it would arouse the horror that slithered and rustled among the shattered ruins inside him. He rubbed at the wetness blurring his good eye.

_Oh, God, I’m so tired of crying._

Slowly, he drew the bedclothes aside, got up, and turned on the light. He moved back to his bed and stared at the leaflet. With the utmost reluctance, as if he were swimming in treacle, he leant forward, holding his injured ribs, and picked it up. He gazed at the front cover for a bit, then opened it.

Half an hour later, he closed it and rested his head against the wall. He was still crying, his tears falling in a silent, steady trickle. His nose was awfully clogged. He got up, found a handkerchief in a drawer (cheaper than facial tissue, if a bit old-fashioned], wiped his eyes, and blew his nose vigorously. Stuffing the handkerchief in the pocket of his dressing gown, he turned and saw the glow of his mobile. He’d plugged it in the night Douglas had brought him home and hadn’t touched it since.

Disconnecting the cord (the attic had only one power outlet, and every time Martin used it, he prayed he wouldn’t be electrocuted), he cradled the phone in the palm of his hand. He crawled back into bed and picked up the leaflet, turning it round to the back cover. He punched in a number and waited.

“Hello?” His voice sounded raspy, unlike him. “Hello. Hi. I’m…I…please, I think I…I need to talk to someone.”

*

Martin rang off and leaned his head against the wall. He felt…better. Not great, of course, but not as desperate and hopeless as he’d felt before. He hadn’t told the nice man on the other end of the wire everything, of course; not the details (he couldn’t, he just couldn’t) but the man had seemed to understand and had spoken soothingly and kindly, and in return Martin had been truthful. 

Mostly. The only lie he’d told – well, it had been a lie of omission. The man had told Martin that he should feel free to call back at any time, that sometimes coping was not only hard for the victim, but for the victim’s support network of friends and family as well, and that they weren’t always equipped to deal with more volatile or upsetting facts or feelings. Martin had murmured agreement, but as he rang off, he’d reflected sadly that he really didn’t have a support network. Mum was too old to burden with a thing like this, and Simon and Caitlin probably spared him a thought every two or three months, if that. It wasn’t unkindness, it was just – well, they were all busy with their lives, that was all. He didn’t really have anyone else. He’d have to cope alone.

Sighing, Martin went to close the phone and saw the message icon. He frowned and keyed in his password: _Golf Echo Romeo Tango India._

“You have two new messages. To hear your messages, please press 1.”

“Martin.” Douglas’ voice, sounding apprehensive, came through the speaker. There was a cough. “Martin, it’s Douglas. If you…if you get this message, and if you’re in a position to call me back, please do so as soon as it’s humanly possible. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay. That is, I…I hope everything’s okay. Please call me.”

Martin checked the date. Douglas had called from Paris, whilst Martin was in the hands of the smugglers. Feeling very strange, he checked the second message.

“Martin, it’s Douglas again. Look, I know you might not be able to come to the phone, but if you…if anyone gets this, it’s very important that I speak to you. I just want to talk to you for a moment. Please…please call me back.”

That one had been some hours later.

Drawing his knees up and closing the phone, Martin held it close to his belly, as if it were a hot-water bottle. It was odd, really; he’d yearned so for Douglas to get him out of that terrible situation, never mind that he’d got Martin into it, and Douglas, far from being the laconic sky god, had worried about him. Had actually called and hoped Martin would answer, even if he likely suspected that wouldn’t happen. Amazingly, astoundingly, had cared.

He flipped the phone open and listened to both messages again. 

Martin checked the time: eleven o’clock. The day had seemed to last forever, and he was tired, but some peculiar compulsion forced him up, and a disordered uproar filled his head, vaguely directing his actions. He shed his dressing gown and slipped into his jeans, then worked his bare feet into his trainers. As he passed his dresser, with its little mirror propped against the wall, he caught a glimpse of himself: hair awry, face pale as milk and still terribly bruised, scrawny and generally unkempt and looking like a sad berk.

_Is this another one of your brilliant ideas doomed to end in great unhappiness for all concerned, Martin Crieff?_

He winced and turned away. Impulsivity and indecision – Douglas had been right about him. But at the moment, it didn’t matter. 

He hoped, anyway.

*

Douglas’ car was parked in the drive, but at an odd angle, as if he’d pulled in hastily and without much care. Martin parked on the street and moved quietly up the walk, now and then glancing over his shoulder (did Eddy Groves know where Douglas lived? Was he, perhaps, keeping a weather eye on the house to make certain the police didn’t pay him a visit? God, he hoped not) and wishing that Douglas had turned some lights on; the streetlamps were hazed into near invisibility by a thick fog, and there wasn’t a single light on inside Douglas’ house.

As he reached for the bell, Martin’s throat constricted. The door was ajar. 

Wildly, he looked around. Oh, God! What if they’d – 

Martin backed up and nearly tripped over his own feet stumbling down the steps. He fled to the van and got inside, shaking and panting. Oh God, oh God, what if they’d come back and grabbed Douglas? Or what if they’d – the house seemed deserted, but what if Douglas was inside, bleeding or –

_No, no, NO._

Martin gripped the wheel with trembling hands. _Get hold of yourself. He might have just forgot that he hadn’t closed the door. Or maybe he left it open deliberately – fresh spring air._

Rubbish. He’d have opened a window, not the sodding door.

_All right. Get a grip and make sure he’s okay._

What if they’d followed Douglas and saw that he’d gone to Martin’s place? Would they reckon the pair of them were conspiring to alert the police? Had they perhaps made certain that Douglas wouldn’t talk?

“Oh, God.” Martin wanted to throw up. He rested his forehead on the wheel and tried to get his breathing under control. _Panic attack,_ some rational corner of his mind supplied. _The leaflet said that might happen. And besides, Douglas’ car is the only other vehicle here except yours._ But the door, the bloody door…and what if Eddy Groves and his goons had parked a street away so as not to attract attention?

 _I can’t leave him alone in there if he’s hurt._ With a small, choked whimper, Martin detached his hands from the wheel and forced himself to slide one hand behind the seat. He found the driver that one of his clients had asked him to throw away as it was a bit warped. He hadn’t, deciding it might come in handy if he ever took up golf – so many captains seemed to play in their spare time. He never had, but now he realised it might be awfully handy at bashing in a criminal’s head if he didn’t trip over it first.

He exited the van and closed the door with a soft _snick_. Tiptoeing up the walk, he held the driver in tightly clenched hands and ascended the steps soundlessly. He held his breath and pushed the door open, ready for someone to spring from behind it like those horror movie axe-murderers who never seemed to die no matter how many times the buxom heroines shot and stabbed and drowned them.

The house was as dark as a tomb, and as silent. Martin looked into the front room – empty. And tidy, if a bit featureless from the foggy light coming in the window. A formal sofa, two-seater, and wing chair, some large floral prints on the wall, a low oval table and a few occasional tables. Martin blinked, taking it in. Helena’s taste, he thought fleetingly, or one of the other ex-Mrs. Richardsons. It didn’t seem like Douglas’ taste somehow.

 _Focus_ , Martin commanded himself, and moved down the short corridor to the kitchen. There was a recessed light on over the sink. In dismay, Martin saw an empty Talisker bottle tipped over onto its side. _Groves?_ But that was odd, and far too coincidental. Talisker had been Douglas’ poison of choice before he’d stopped drinking. Surely he hadn’t taken it up again?

_Because of you, maybe?_

Oh God, he hoped not. He glanced round the kitchen – it too was neat and tidy, pots and pans dangling from a professional wire rack overhead, jars and bottles of oils and spices arranged with almost military precision on little shelves. A little herb garden sat in two boxes beside the window, and there was an orderly row of cookbooks on another shelf. It was a pleasant room, open and sunny in daylight, probably, and the only worrying element was the empty bottle of Scotch. Martin moved a little closer, inhaling the sharp aroma (quite fresh, as if it had only been opened and drunk a little while ago), and saw one white athletic sock draped over the faucet. He frowned.

_Stop wasting time. You’ve got to search the whole house. He must be here somewhere._

Timidly, Martin gripped the driver. There were a few more rooms on the ground floor – a study, a tiny powder room, and a little conservatory. He’d only been here once before, when Douglas had thrown a barbecue for all the staff of MJN, but Martin had come through the garden gate and had only breezed through on the way out, to use the loo.

He checked the conservatory, now mostly empty – though whether that was due to Helena absconding with the plants after the divorce or Douglas’ indifference, Martin had no idea. He looked inside the loo – nothing. He thanked heaven for the noise-absorbing carpet and slowly pushed open the door to the study.

It was almost completely dark. Martin squinted, frustrated, and caught his breath as he heard a noise: a strange, soft noise, stealthy and not repeated. Fear clenched his throat down to a pinhole of an airway, but he couldn’t turn back now. He groped toward the wall with a quaking hand where he hoped to God the light switch was located, and turned it on.

“AGHH!”

Martin let out a squeak of pure terror and stumbled backward, tripping over something. He fell against the wall, banged his elbow hard on the edge of a spinet piano, and fell to the floor.

Douglas was on his feet, brandishing a lamp. “Martin!” he roared. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Checking on you,” Martin gasped.

“ _Checking_ on me? Good God, do you realise I could have killed you? Are you completely insane?” Douglas put one hand on his chest. “Jesus, you almost gave me apoplexy. What on earth are you doing here? Come on, get up.” He held his hand out and pulled Martin to his feet.

“Your door was ajar,” Martin explained, and let Douglas lead him to the sofa where he’d been sleeping peacefully. He dropped into it and attempted to cool down long enough for his heart to resume its normal rhythm.

“God, was it? Did you close it?”

“Er…no, I don’t think so.”

Douglas shook his head. “Hang on, don’t move.” He left the room and returned a moment later to lean against the doorway and stare disapprovingly at Martin. He had changed out of his uniform into a grey jumper and a pair of wash-faded jeans. “What were you thinking, Martin?”

It was the second time in a night Douglas had said that to him. “I was _thinking_ that you’d got yourself into trouble. That maybe Eddy Groves and those…those bastards had come back and decided to hurt you.”

Douglas’ face changed. He came to sit beside Martin. “No. They didn’t. I’m okay.”

“I’m glad. I was worried,” said Martin, and suddenly, quite without warning, burst into tears, embarrassing, noisy, choking sobs that he’d contained in favor of strained and silent weeping for five long days and that, to his complete horror, he couldn’t contain now. He clamped his hands over his mouth, but they emerged just the same, muffled and ugly and raw.

“Martin,” Douglas said quietly, then put his arm round Martin’s shoulders.

That gesture, measured and tender, only made Martin cry harder. He felt so utterly stupid, weak, out of control, and the crying was hurting his ribs, but he couldn’t stop. He wailed against Douglas’ shoulder, and Douglas’ other arm enclosed him, and he found himself wrapping his arms round Douglas, clinging to him as if he were a life raft. Douglas was murmuring to him, smoothing his hair, and finally he rested his head against Martin’s and simply rocked him back and forth, allowing the storm to take hold and have its way and finally pass. After it had, Douglas still held Martin, his lips pressed to the top of Martin’s head.

Martin’s cheek scraped against Douglas’ jumper. It was soft lambs’ wool and smelled like the Lanvin cologne Douglas favored, a lovely, familiar smell. “Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

Douglas produced a handkerchief and handed it to Martin. “Mop your eyes.”

Obediently, still leaning against Douglas’ chest, Martin wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He offered the handkerchief back, noticing that it was linen and there was a white monogram in one corner. Martin used handkerchiefs out of necessity; Douglas used them as a luxury. There was some lesson in that, but Martin didn’t have the energy to think about it at the moment.

“Keep it,” Douglas said dryly.

Martin choked out a laugh. “Right – sorry.” He took a deep breath, sat up, and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Douglas. Have you been drinking?” 

“Why do you ask?” A strange, guarded note came into Douglas’ voice.

“Because there’s a still-fragrant and yet very empty Talisker bottle in your kitchen, that’s why.” Though, Martin realised, he’d been close enough to Douglas to kiss him and he hadn’t smelled whiskey on his breath.

_Close enough to kiss him? Oh, shut up, you oik._

“That’s true. There _is_ a still-fragrant and yet very empty Talisker bottle in my kitchen.”

“It’s been eight years, Douglas,” Martin pleaded. “For the love of God, please don’t tell me you took up drinking again because of…because of what happened to me. I couldn’t bear it.”

A rueful smile crossed Douglas’ face. “I had thought of it, yes. But actually, the original purpose was somewhat different.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, to be quite honest, I feel a bit foolish about it now, but I wasn’t quite thinking clearly,” Douglas said, leaning back against the sofa. “Actually, I feel very, very stupid, Martin.”

“Douglas, will you _please_ stop being oblique and explain?”

A deep sigh worked its way from Douglas’ chest. Distractedly, he ran his fingers through his luxuriant hair. His jumper was slightly damp from Martin’s weeping. His face was a bit grey and very tired, and his expression was one of intense guilt.

And yet, if Martin had his choice of any company…. Something glowed in his chest, a warmth that supplanted the pain in his ribs. He would have waited years for whatever explanation was forthcoming, and would have been happy watching Douglas as he waited.

Douglas’ voice broke into Martin’s reverie. “After I’d stopped by your flat, I was feeling…awful. Horribly guilty, and angry. No, furious, really. I haven’t felt a rage like that since my first wife threatened to move to France with our daughter. And even then, it wasn’t the same.” Douglas put his hands over his face. “Martin, I will always be responsible for what happened to you. Always.” His voice was thick, muffled.

Martin shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I told you I’m not angry.”

“Why, for God’s sake?” When Douglas took his hands away, his eyes were wet. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”

Helplessly, Martin shook his head. “Because you didn’t intend for it to happen. It was my bloody fault, Douglas. Wrong place, wrong time – that’s the story of my –“

“Jesus, don’t fucking joke about it.” Douglas struck his thigh with a fist. “And even now – Christ, you think I don’t know you don’t want or need my bloody guilt after what they did?”

“They didn’t rape me. Not – not really.”

“What does that mean – not really?”

Hesitantly, Martin told him. “I mean – well, that doesn’t quite count, does it?”

Douglas sighed. “I think it counts.”

Martin bit his lip and winced in pain. “I – I know,” he said softly. “I know it does.” He dragged out the handkerchief again. “Oh, God, I’m so tired of this.”

“I’m sorry. Martin, I’m sorry.” Douglas’ arms enclosed him again.

“They h-h-hurt me, Douglas.”

“I know. I know they did.”

“I kept hoping…I don’t know. Hoping you’d come back and save me. Stupid, I know.”

“Oh, _God_ , Martin, if I could have…if I’d known….”

Martin found the curve of Douglas’ neck and rested his forehead there. His body, his head, his heart ached so badly, but he felt as if he was ridding himself of something that had lodged inside him for the better part of a week. “No. They’d have hurt you too. I didn’t want…I was so afraid.”

Douglas’ lips were next to Martin’s ear. “You are the bravest man I know.”

“No, I’m not.” _How can he think that? I’m a weepy, frightened mess._ “No, you were right. I’m stupid and impulsive – if I hadn’t tried to get away they’d never have –“ He gulped down another noisy sob.

“You were brave. And resourceful. You survived, Martin.”

“Not due to anything I did.”

“You survived.” Douglas’ arms around him were strong and gentle.

Martin shuddered. “I don’t want to think about this for the rest of my life, Douglas. I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything right now. Nothing you don’t want to do.” 

“Okay.” Another shuddering breath emerged from Martin’s chest. “Not right now.” He scrubbed at his aching eyes. “God, my ribs hurt.”

“Did you bring your painkillers?”

“No, I left them at home.” Martin blew his nose again and gave Douglas a watery smile. “I didn’t think I’d be coming here to cry all over your nice jumper. Sorry.”

“Oh, I think salt water is good for lambs’ wool. At least those sheep you see near the coastlines all seem exceptionally hardy. And fluffy.”

Martin gave a sniffly laugh. “You were going to tell me about the Talisker.”

“Oh, right. Well, as I said, I wasn’t thinking quite clearly. I saw the store coming over a rise and went in and bought the bloody thing, and when I came out to the car, I sat in it for a bit, thinking. My gym bag was in the back seat, and…well, one thing led to another, and before I quite realised it, I’d assembled a….” Douglas bit his lip.

Martin frowned. “A _what_?”

“A Molotov cocktail.”

Martin gaped, aghast. “Douglas!”

“I know, I know.”

“Douglas!”

“I _know_. I’m not saying it was the best idea I’ve had in years, but as I said, clarity wasn’t one of my more paramount virtues at the moment.”

Martin cradled his head in his hands. “Oh, dear God. You were actually going to firebomb Eddy Groves’…what, his house? The warehouse? And you asked me if _I_ was insane?”

“Yes, I know. Well, I’d never been to the warehouse, but I _had_ been to his residence, so I found my way back there. Except I’d forgot that he lives in one of those ghastly American-style gated communities that footballers and pop stars seem to favour at the moment, and to get in I’d have to check in with a guard. So that was that.”

“Would have been a terrible alibi.”

“Oh, quite. ‘Just dropping off a bottle of Talisker for my dear pal Mr. Groves. What’s the sock doing in the neck of the bottle? Oh, that’s what Talisker uses rather than cork these days, it’s very much the thing.’ Yes, I can’t quite see that going over so well with the police.”

“But you didn’t drink it,” Martin ventured quietly.

“Ah. No. I brought it home, and I looked at it for a while – I was a bit distraught, as you probably discerned from the open door – and believe me, temptation opened up her long white arms and beckoned. But in the end….” Douglas sighed. “In the end, I realised it was damned silly and selfish for me to get drunk when the person I most c –“ Douglas looked down. A bit of colour tinged his cheeks before he met Martin’s eyes. “At any rate, I poured it down the sink. I may not say it often…well, ever…but you do mean a great deal to me, Martin.”

“Do I?”

“Well, yes. You’re one of my dearest friends.”

“Oh.” Martin set aside the brief stab of disappointment. _You can count yourself lucky if you have one true friend in your life, Martin Crieff. Don’t tempt fate by asking for more._ “Thank you, Douglas. I…I listened to your phone messages tonight. That was…that was good of you.”

Douglas smiled. “Look, it’s awfully late. Do you want to spend the night here?”

“I am a bit tired,” Martin said. “Exhausted, actually. Would you mind terribly?”

“Not in the least. The guest room is ready –“

“No,” Martin said. “That is – I’ll just sleep here on the sofa. It seems quite comfortable.”

“The bed’s more comfortable.”

“No, this is nice.” Martin looked around at the room for the first time, seeing the stamp of Douglas’ personality in the piano, in the odd hangings on the wall, in the photographs and books that littered every surface. There was even a photo of Martin standing next to Arthur and Carolyn in…was it Montego Bay? Martin rather thought it was. Arthur was wearing an eyepatch and a pirate’s tricorn, and Carolyn looked annoyed. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind?”

“That’s fine.” Douglas found a few pillows and arranged them, then gave Martin a fluffy wool plaid blanket he’d bought in Galway. “Let me get you some paracetamol. Back in a flash.”

Martin took off his trainers and settled himself beneath the blanket. His ribs were singing _Roses of Picardy_ and his head ached, but he felt better than he had in a week. Douglas’ house felt safe. He wasn’t completely okay, but he would be. Eventually.

Douglas thought he was brave.

“Here we are.” Douglas handed Martin some tablets and a glass of water. 

Martin downed both and sighed. “Thank you. Douglas?”

“Yes?”

“Could I ask a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Will you stay with me a bit until I fall asleep? I know it’s a bit stupid, but…I can use the company.”

Douglas pulled a rocking chair next to the sofa and turned on a soft, shaded lamp. “Of course I will, Martin.” He sat down and plucked a book from the table – a biography of Franz Liszt.

Martin settled into the pillows. He felt himself drifting already. “Douglas?” he asked, aware his voice was going fuzzy.

“Yes, Martin?”

“Why Talisker? Why not some cheap rotgut stuff?”

“Well, it was Eddy’s cash,” Douglas said. “And you know me, Martin. I never do anything cheaply if I can do it in style instead.”

Even though it made his ribs ache more, Martin laughed. _I love you, Douglas Richardson. God help me, but I do._

As he was falling asleep, he thought he felt a gentle touch on his cheek, but he might have been dreaming.

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mizz_history for providing insight into the UK health system. Much appreciated.

*

“Coffee, chaps!” Arthur exclaimed brightly as he burst onto the flight deck. “Oh – chap. Is Skipper still doing the walk-around, Douglas?”

Douglas stifled a yawn. “He is indeed, Arthur, but if you care to hand over that most soothing and yet stimulating nectar of the gods, I shall be happy to accept it.”

“Brilliant! It’s just…well, I got him this new mug, you see, as a sort of welcome-back present, and I wanted to – there you are, Skip!”

“Yes, here I am. Hello, Arthur.” Martin settled in and doffed his cap.

“I got you a welcome-back gift, Skip.” With a cheerful smile, Arthur handed Martin a mug.

“Coffee.” Martin raised his eyebrows. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Oh, the coffee’s just a bonus!” Arthur said. “Look at the mug.”

Martin lifted the mug to appraise it, and upon noticing the Supermarine Spitfire emblazoned on its surface, his face broke into the first smile Douglas had seen in two hours. “Why, Arthur, that’s – that’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

“I’m just really, really glad you’re back, Skip. Can I get you a pillow or something?”

“No, I don’t think a pillow would help much, but thank you all the same.”

“It’s just that when I was dating Fliss, you see, she took me to her family’s stables, and there was this really, really big horse, and I got thrown and broke a rib myself. So I know how it feels.”

“Goodness,” Douglas said. “I didn’t know you rode, Arthur.”

“Oh, I don’t! No, this was still in the box. He threw me into the wall while I was trying to feed him a lump of sugar.”

“Ah.” Douglas sipped at his coffee while Martin looked over the instruments that Douglas had inspected himself half an hour ago. GERTI’s engines were whining to life, the coffee was hot and awful and weak, Martin was triple-checking perfectly sound panels, and Arthur was being a clot; all was right with the world.

Mostly.

“Well, I’m healing nicely, Arthur, but thank you for asking.” Martin sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Arthur, you didn’t re-use the grounds, did you?”

“Um…”

“ _Really_ , Arthur,” Douglas sighed. “You don’t have to do everything your mother tells you. One use of coffee grounds is the absolute limit.”

“Um…I know, chaps, but Mum said if you didn’t like our coffee, you could get Starbucks. Which is brilliant, actually! I love their chai!”

“Yes, all part of her cunning plan to get us to buy our own coffee. Honestly, Arthur, Carolyn can’t expect us to drink this swill,” Martin complained.

“Except that we _are_ drinking it,” Douglas remarked. “Surely you’re not serving it to the passengers, Arthur?”

“No, they’re drinking vodka. I could make tea instead,” Arthur suggested.

“Very well. _Don’t_ re-use the leaves, Arthur,” Douglas said.

“Oh. All right, but don’t tell Mum!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Douglas intoned. “And if you don’t make the coffee with fresh grounds next time, then I won’t be the one dying.”

“Right!” Arthur dashed out of the flight deck, leaving Douglas and Martin behind in blessed silence.

“Why is it that after a five-minute conversation with Arthur, I always feel exhausted?” Douglas queried rhetorically.

“It’s either the weak coffee that doesn’t impart nearly enough caffeine to the bloodstream, or the fact that he’s a –“

“Clot,” Douglas finished. 

Martin smiled a little, then looked shamefaced. “I shouldn’t say that. It was lovely of him to give me this mug.”

“Very well then. A clot, but a sweet, good-hearted clot.”

“That’ll do.” Martin turned his attention to ATC. “Golf Tango India requesting weather at Marseilles, please.”

“Golf Tango India, severe clear at Marseilles. Taxi to position and hold.”

“Thank you, Carl.”

For a short time, conversation ceased as they went about the business of getting in the air. Douglas kept a weather eye on Martin, but all seemed well; Martin was his usual crisp, businesslike, bossy self, and if it was an act, it was a good one. It had been almost two weeks since Douglas had clapped eyes on Martin. After the night Martin had spent at his house, he’d gone home and kept in touch every few days via mobile. Well, truthfully, it was Douglas who’d kept in touch, not wanting to pester, but nonetheless concerned for the seemingly fragile state of Martin’s mental health. But Martin had assured him he was much better, that he was going to counselling, that he would be okay. He’d volunteered no more than that, and Douglas didn’t like to pry. He couldn’t help feeling, however, that Martin had raised a wall between them. Possibly he’d been embarrassed by his outburst, and Douglas certainly understood wounded pride. 

He was also beginning to understand exactly why Martin’s silence bothered him so much, but that was another matter, to be examined…later. He risked a sideways glance at Martin, but Martin was concentrating on the panel with intense interest and didn’t even seem aware that Douglas was present.

Douglas contained a sigh.

 _Much_ later, he decided.

After almost an hour, Douglas couldn’t contain himself. “Are you all right?”

Martin didn’t look up from the instrument panel. “Do you realise that’s the third time you’ve asked me that since I arrived at the airfield this morning?”

“Is it now? Shall I go for an even four?”

“Of course I’m all right. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t.” The tips of Martin’s ears turned pink, and he seemed to struggle with words. “I do wish you’d stop asking.”

“Very well. Consider me duly informed.” Douglas affected nonchalance. “It’s just that I hadn’t heard much from you recently and I was concerned.”

“You did phone me.”

“Yes, to a rousing chorus of monosyllables,” Douglas replied tartly. “Look here, Martin, I happen to consider you a friend, and I’m concerned for your well-being. And believe it or not, I also happen to be concerned about your ability to conduct yourself during a longer flight.”

“The doctor cleared me,” Martin replied through gritted teeth.

“I’m not talking about your physical health. I wasn’t going to tell you, but Carolyn was worried as well.”

Martin turned to Douglas, his face pallid except for two blotches of crimson high on his cheeks. “What did you say to her?” he hissed. “You –“

Startled, Douglas held both hands up. “Peace! Good God, Martin, get hold of yourself. I didn’t tell her anything. You asked me not to and I honored that request.”

Martin drew a shaky hand over his mouth and slumped back into his seat. “Sorry. I suppose I’m sorry. I just – I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“All right,” Douglas replied in his most soothing tone.

“I’m coping with it as best I can, that’s all.”

“I know you are,” Douglas said. 

“I just don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.”

“I can understand that.”

“Especially you.”

Douglas pretended that hadn’t stung. He was silent for a moment, and then, with an air of casual inquiry, said, “Why especially not me?”

Martin sighed and sipped at his cooling coffee (Arthur had clearly forgot his promise to make tea). “I know how it sounds, and I don’t – I don’t mean it that way. It’s just…well, I made an utter fool of myself that night at your house, and I’d just rather we forgot the whole thing.”

“I see.” Douglas had anticipated some sort of argument today, some catharsis, but he hadn’t anticipated the way his heart would feel – as if it were frozen, buried on some distant and nameless planet under millions of years of thick grey ice. He’d made a point of consulting a few websites for rape victims, and he knew Martin might withdraw, but….

 _Don’t be an idiot,_ he chided himself furiously. _For once in your life, don’t insist on being the center of the universe. This isn’t in the least about you._

He forced himself to speak. “I understand perfectly, Martin. If you want to talk, I’m willing to listen. If not, that’s fine as well.”

Martin sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, in a harsh whisper, he said, “You have control,” and got out of his seat, stumbling through the flight deck door. When he came back a few minutes later, his face was flushed and his eyes were tinged with red, but he said nothing, simply slipping back into his seat. Douglas ceded control, and they flew in silence for a time.

“I’m sorry, Douglas.”

Douglas contained another sigh. “Martin, you don’t owe me a single apology.”

“I do, though. You’ve been very kind to me, and –“

“Oh, Martin –“

“No, let me finish. You’ve been kind to me and you haven’t betrayed my trust or tried to crowd me. You probably think I haven’t noticed, but I have.”

Douglas dared a glance to the left. Martin was looking at him quite intently. 

“It’s just – I don’t have any idea how long I’ll be getting over this…problem. I don’t mean to take anything out on you, but sometimes – well, my counsellor, she’s a group counsellor, I couldn’t afford the private therapy. I…I used that money Groves gave me to pay my rent for two months.” Martin let out a little chuckle. “Turns out I needed it after all. Bloody lucky to have it, since I can’t lift anything for the next four weeks.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth.

“Martin –“

Martin waved his hand. “Please, Douglas. You’ve no idea how that makes me feel. I’m begging you – don’t make it worse for me.”

Douglas folded his lips together to repress the foul invective that itched to hurl itself forth. Martin was right: Douglas had no idea how Martin felt, but if he ever _did_ manage to catch Eddy Groves on the hop, Groves was going to be one right sorry bastard.

“Anyway, I…I don’t remember what I was saying.” Martin shook his head.

“Your counsellor,” Douglas prompted gently.

“Oh, right. She said that it’s not an uncommon occurrence to take out one’s anger against the people closest to you – family, colleagues, that sort of thing. I…I know how unprofessional it is, and I apologise.”

“We’re friends, Martin,” Douglas said. “Believe me, it’s okay.”

Martin nodded, but he fixed his gaze downward, and the slump of his shoulders indicated that it was anything but okay.

“Something else?”

“I…look, I want to ask you something, but don’t get angry, please.”

Douglas frowned. “Of course I won’t get angry.”

Martin looked unsure of this promise, but plunged on. “That first night, the night they…the night you left, you told Groves I was a berk and that flying was all I had.”

“Martin, you know I –“

“Wait. I know you were trying to make me less…important, or conspicuous, or whatever, and I understand that. I mean…the second thing, I know. Flying really _is_ all I’ve got, Douglas. You saw my flat. Well, my room. You’ve seen my van. Flying’s the only thing that really makes me happy, and that’s okay. I mean, I don’t expect to find some fantastic gig with Air England or some chic house in Eaton Square or the love of my life or – or anything like that.” Martin’s ears and cheeks were very pink. “But…am I really…a-a-am I really a sad berk? And please don’t tell me I’m smashing because you feel sorry for me, because I won’t believe a word of it.”

Never in his life had Douglas wanted so badly to kiss someone – not any of the ex-Mrs. Richardsons, not darling Calista, not the fascinating little Moroccan number he’d wined and dined for a week in Tunis. 

_Once again, prat, this is not about you._

“Well, Martin, you’ve certainly got me between a rock and a hard place,” he said. “Yes, I’ve seen your room and your van, and I can say with complete confidence that they are, without the least shadow of a doubt, horrid and wretched, respectively. Since the future is murky at best and I can’t even pretend to be, say, _Yoda_ , I have no idea what your future residential or job status might be.” He prudently, carefully, optimistically withheld speaking about Martin’s love life. “And I can say with even further confidence, if such a thing as excessive completeness can be measured, that you…you are absolutely fantastic. And it’s not because I feel sorry for you. It’s simply because you are.”

The faintest trace of a smile curved Martin’s lips. He dropped his gaze. “Do you mean that?” he asked in a very small voice.

“Absolutely. And flying’s not all you’ve got.” 

“No?”

“No.” Douglas hesitated. “You’ve got me.”

Martin’s ears went a brilliant red. “Oh,” he whispered.

Discreetly, Douglas shuffled through some paperwork as Martin pulled out a handkerchief – Douglas’ own, he noticed, spotlessly clean – and swiped at his eyes and nose. He waited a while, then settled more comfortably in his seat. “Two-word film titles improved whilst reversed.”

Martin grinned. “Oh, God. All right – no, you start.”

“Hm. _Twist Oliver._ ”

“ _Man Rain._ ”

“Based on the classic disco tune, no doubt. Ah… _Window Rear_.”

“Goodness. Oh! _Eye Golden._ ”

“ _Goldeneye_ is one word, Martin. And what in God’s name does _Eye Golden_ signify?”

“It’s…it’s like _I, Robot_ ,” Martin insisted stoutly. “You know… _Eye, Golden._ ”

Douglas bit his lip and shook his head. He couldn’t predict the future, but he could make a fairly decent guess. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not even next month, but eventually…eventually things would get better.

*


	10. Chapter 10

*

“Good God,” Douglas muttered, _sotto voce_ , as they walked into the blue-and-white tiled lobby of Le Orphie. “This is absolutely charming. Surely Carolyn’s made a mistake.”

“Do you think so? Or has she softened? This _is_ the correct address.” Martin looked around doubtfully at the cheerful orange lilies in mismatched bowls and vases on every surface, the sofas and chairs in pretty toiles and faded florals, the glossy curved sweep of the old-fashioned wooden reservation desk. 

“Maybe the rooms are horrifying,” Douglas offered. “And since Carolyn and Arthur are staying with friends, she knew she wouldn’t have to suffer the same fate.”

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” Martin said in a low mutter.

“Yes, I think a thorough room inspection is in order,” Douglas replied. “Check for corpses in the wardrobe and all that. Still, if it’s awfully grotty, we can always try Miranda’s.”

“Who’s Miranda?”

“The first Mrs. Richardson. She wound up marrying a shipping magnate of some kind and now occupies a huge, vulgar house on the Côte d'Azur. Pots and pots of money.”

“I don’t suppose she’d take us in if we were desperate.”

A fond smile made Douglas’ eyes crinkle. “Difficult to say. Last time I saw her she hurled a vase at my head. She always _was_ the mercurial sort.”

“Well, perhaps we shouldn’t rely on her.” Martin took off his hat and led the way to the desk, where a plump young woman smiled up at him from a pile of knitting. “Um, hello. _Bonjour, madame. Je voudrais_ …er… _faire une reserve_ ….” He looked beseechingly at Douglas. “Do you mind?”

“Certainly not.” Douglas gave the young woman a little bow that didn’t look at all contrived. “ _Bonjour, mademoiselle. J'ai reservé une chambre au nom de Richardson et Crieff_.”

The girl smiled and actually blushed. “ _Oui, monsieur - nous vous attendons_.”

 _How does he do that?_ Martin wondered. He knew the proper phrases, but he always managed to get it wrong somehow. Douglas, though, would be able to secure a room in whatever country they happened to be in, whether or not he spoke the language, and nine times out of ten he’d manage to wangle whatever extra amenities he could as well. Didn’t matter if it was a spare set of towels or a fruit basket – if Douglas could obtain it, he would. Martin had to admit it was a useful skill to have, however much he envied it. He watched Douglas flirting with the clerk and smiled wistfully. That was a useful skill as well.

Finally Douglas accepted two keys on brightly painted wooden tags and gestured toward a curving staircase. “Second floor, end of the hall. We’ve got one room, as expected. Some things don’t change.”

Martin waited for the usual complaint about Carolyn forcing Douglas and Martin to bunk together like a couple of Scouts on a camping trip, but none seemed forthcoming. He followed Douglas up the stairs and found himself in a room every bit as airy and appealing as the lobby. There were two adequately sized beds with white-painted iron headboards, simple but attractive furnishings, and a little door leading to a balcony with a view of the harbor. Martin set his bag on a rocking chair and gaped at the little vase of spring flowers on the table between the beds. “She must have made a mistake.”

“Well, let’s not say a word about it,” Douglas said, stretching. “She’ll have us roughing it in some ghastly hostel in no time the minute we do. How are you feeling? Was the flight too much for you?”

“No. No, I feel fine. Really great, actually.” Martin gently touched his chest, surprised to discover that it was true. He hadn’t felt this physically well since before it had all happened. “I’m famished, too. I could eat a horse.”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” Douglas said. “Marseilles has some of the loveliest cuisine in France, after all. Come on, let’s get out of these togs and then feed you up.”

*

_Christ, I could fuck that mouth all day._

_You are, too. Give someone else a crack at it, would you?_

_Calm down. He can take plenty more – can’t you, love?_

_Waterworks again. Cor, he’s a whinger, in’t he?_

Martin awoke with a jolt and for a moment floundered in silent panic, not knowing where he was or what was happening to him. He felt his limbs twitching and controlled them with an effort. He lay perfectly still, his heart trip-hammering in his chest, and counted to twenty before he realised that he was unbound (his arms and legs had suffered uncontrollable spasms for almost two weeks after the ordeal – a perfectly common physical response to restraint, his counsellor had assured him, sort of like Restless Legs Syndrome which pilots coped with once in a while. It would go away in time) and safe. He was in a quaint, pretty hotel room in Marseilles, and Douglas –

Douglas wasn’t there. His bed was empty.

The panic flared again. Martin seized his watch (an ordinary but quite serviceable square-faced watch he’d picked up at Tesco, since his faux Patek Philippe had given up the ghost some time ago) and checked the time: twelve-thirty in the morning. Where could he be? There was enough light from the glassed-in balcony door, even with its white cotton curtain, to see that the en suite bathroom door was cracked open and there was no-one inside. Maybe he was having a walk, or down in the bar listening to the three-piece jazz ensemble that had still been playing in the courtyard when he and Douglas had headed upstairs at ten. Whatever the case, he was absolutely fine. Eddy Groves had not followed them to Marseilles. That was irrational. Martin and Douglas were both safe.

Martin pressed his hands to his eyes for a moment and sat up, turning the little bedside light on. Douglas’ bedclothes were neatly turned back, his pyjamas draped at the foot of the bed, his key was missing from the bedside table. No sign at all that anything untoward had happened. Martin sighed, feeling his heart resuming a normal rhythm again. Perhaps Douglas hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone for a walk. The night air, so redolent of spring greenery and the faint tang of the sea, was surely too much enticement for anyone who couldn’t sleep. Martin would just have a look, just a quick look round. If Douglas wasn’t close by, Martin would ring him. He wasn’t ready to walk unfamiliar streets at night just yet.

He threw back the bedclothes and slid into the cotton shirt and faded but clean khaki trousers he’d worn to the simple, excellent seafood restaurant Douglas had chosen. He slipped into moccasins (Douglas had a pair, far more expensive of course, and Martin had admired how casual and smart Douglas had looked in them. So he’d bought similar ones, then had sighed when he’d realised that he really wasn’t cut out for the dashing sockless look, not the way Douglas was – why did he persist in imitating him? Still, it was too late now – it was the moccasins or his uniform dress shoes, which would just look silly), snatched up his key, and left the room, making certain the door was securely locked.

_Irrational. You’re fine, you’re safe. The dreams will stop eventually._

He went downstairs and into the lobby. It was quiet and dim, the night clerk snoozing in a chair with his feet propped up. Frowning – he hadn’t really expected Douglas to be ensconced in the lobby with a good book – he turned on his heel and went through the hotel to the back gate. There were still lights on – coloured-paper lanterns strung along the stone wall and in some spicy-smelling olive trees – and the soft tinkling of a piano. As Martin stepped through the gate, he saw a few people nursing drinks. A young female couple cuddled together on a stone banquette, a middle-aged man seemed to be sleeping whilst sitting up, and a group of men and women were pouring what looked like Pernod into little glasses and talking quietly in French. At the end of the courtyard was the space for the music ensemble. The musicians were gone, but someone was playing the piano, something old-fashioned, but familiar. An elderly woman held a glass to her lips but did not drink; instead, she nodded silently along with the music. And someone else was singing quietly, too.

_You're lovely, with your smile so warm  
And your cheeks so soft,  
There is nothing for me but to love you,  
And the way you look tonight._

Martin felt a lovely warmth suffusing him. He knew that voice. He held still and listened.

_With each word your tenderness grows,  
Tearing my fear apart  
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,  
It touches my foolish heart._

Martin drifted a bit closer. He imagined Douglas singing this to a countless array of lady friends, dazzling them with that ineffable Douglas Richardson charm. A little ache pierced his middle: not his ribs, not at all. He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t help himself; he moved closer to the piano, to the sound of Douglas’ voice. 

Douglas looked up and saw him. He smiled and winked. Helplessly, Martin smiled back.

_Lovely, never, ever change.  
Keep that breathless charm  
Won't you please arrange it  
‘Cause I love you, just the way you look tonight._

A smattering of soft applause sounded in the courtyard, and Douglas inclined his head – not humbly, exactly, but graciously nevertheless. “Hello there,” he said, switching to another soft tune. “You all right?”

“Oh – oh, yes,” Martin said. “I just thought I’d get some…air.” _I can’t ruddy well tell him I had a nightmare and came scurrying out to look for him. God, what would he think?_

“Do you want a drink? They’re serving until two.”

Martin felt very stupid suddenly. “No. No, I’m fine. I should go – um….” He leant over a little and watched Douglas’ fingers on the keys, moving with effortless grace. “You’re really good.”

“Not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” Douglas replied with a roguish grin. “My repertoire generally hits the brakes at about 1960, but I manage to scrape along nonetheless.”

“Couldn’t you sleep?” Martin asked. “I hope I didn’t – disturb you or anything.” He had a faint suspicion that his nightmares made him talk or cry out in his sleep. He hadn’t considered it before now, though, because he always slept alone.

Douglas pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Not at all.”

Martin’s heart sank. “I mean – I think I might talk in my sleep. Just lately, that is. I didn’t really know – I should have said something. I’m sorry.” Douglas took his hands away from the keys and rubbed his eyes. _Oh, well done, idiot_ , Martin told himself. _You’ve got quite a knack for killing a mood, haven’t you?_ “Sorry,” he whispered.

“You didn’t disturb me, Martin.” Douglas gave him a tired smile. “I just thought I’d come out for a little air myself.”

“Ah. Sucked it all out of the room, did I?” Martin clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to sound so pathetic, but it seemed to be his default mode just lately. Well, even more so just lately.

Douglas appeared to ignore this and closed the lid of the piano. “Fancy a stroll?”

Martin was caught off guard. “A – a stroll?”

“Yes. You know – a walk, an amble.” Douglas gestured vaguely at the wall. “I think I’m going to have a stroll. We don’t have to leave until four tomorrow, so there’s still plenty of time to sleep. You’re welcome to join me if you like.”

“Oh.” Martin bit his still-tender lower lip and considered. He wasn’t keen on walking strange streets after dark, but with Douglas, it mightn’t be so bad. “All right.”

*

They found themselves on a hilly paved road lined with more olive trees and pretty, compact houses, each with its own little front garden. A warm breeze blew through the olive branches, setting them to rustling and releasing a sweet, spicy fragrance that mingled with the sea-scented air. “Gosh, isn’t that lovely,” Martin murmured, inhaling deeply.

“Yes. Rather a romantic place, isn’t it?”

“It is. Did you, er – did you come here with the first Mrs. – Miranda?”

“What?” Douglas seemed puzzled. “Oh, good heavens, no. No, Miranda’s battleground was London until we split up. I never thought she’d manage for a moment outside the city, but she seems to have thrived.”

“Well done her, I suppose.”

“Yes indeed.” Douglas reached up idly and tugged at a slender thread of leaves. “I suppose it would be nice to bring someone here, though. Lovely beaches, fabulous food, good weather, all that. What about you – would you bring someone here if you could?”

Martin stuffed his hands in his pockets. _But I have done. Sort of._ “Why – yes, I reckon I would. I don’t know if it would be the _first_ place I’d choose, but certainly it’s quite beautiful.”

“Really?” Douglas turned toward Martin. “What would the first place be?”

“Home,” Martin said, and clamped his mouth shut again. _There, you’ve done it. If Douglas didn’t think you were the most boring sod in the world before this, he most definitely does now. All the places you’ve been, all the sights you’ve seen, and all you want is to be in Fitton –_

“Home?” Douglas asked softly.

 _in Fitton, with Douglas._ Martin sighed. _Give it up._ “Yes,” he said. “It would be nice to have someone to come home to, that’s all.”

Douglas was silent awhile. “That’s quite romantic.”

“Oh, ha-ha. I’m sure you think so.”

“Actually, I –“ Douglas broke off as the sound of raucous laughter reached them. 

Coming over a rise in the hill were five young men, hooting and shouting and pushing at each other. Martin shrank back against a stucco wall. They were clearly drunk and just as clearly becoming very aggressive. _Stupid. It’s fine. It’s fine. They’re not threatening you –_ A wave of dizziness attacked him, and he braced himself against the wall, leaning his head against it to keep from blacking out. _It’s just your inner ear problem, or the wine you had with dinner. Too much._

“Martin. Martin?” Douglas was grasping his arm. “Are you all right?”

Martin blinked. The young men had swept past without even noticing them, and Douglas was staring at him with an expression of mingled anxiety and concern.

“Come on.” Douglas’ arm went round Martin’s shoulders – a paternal gesture. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“I’m all right,” Martin mumbled, and pushed himself away from the encircling comfort of Douglas’ arm. _Don’t touch me, please don’t, I can’t bear to have you touch me knowing you don’t really –_ “I’m fine. Thanks.”

They walked back to the hotel in silence and plodded up to the room. Martin turned from Douglas as he stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers again, and slid into bed as Douglas was buttoning the jacket of his pyjamas. “Good night,” he said, curling up under the smooth cotton sheets and clean counterpane.

“Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Are you certain you’re all right?”

Martin sighed. “Yes, I’m all right.” He sat up and cradled his head in his hands. “I mean – obviously I’m not, but it’s not so bad. I had a bit of a panic attack, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.” Douglas sat heavily on his bed. “I shouldn’t have cajoled you into coming along.”

“It wasn’t you,” Martin said. “You didn’t drag me. I just get – well, it’s unpleasant sometimes. I might as well tell you – I came downstairs earlier because I had a nightmare and I – I suppose I was looking for a bit of comfort.” Shamefaced, he smiled. “Stupid.”

“Not to me.”

“Douglas, really, you don’t have to –“

“ _Martin_.” Martin glanced up. Douglas was standing, staring down at him; when Martin met his gaze he sank to his knees, reached out, and put one hand on Martin’s shoulder – lightly, as if he were afraid of being brushed off. “Not to me.”

 _I was wrong_ , Martin thought. _It doesn’t have to be Fitton. It could be anywhere. I’d go anywhere to be with him._ “Douglas,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

Martin groped for something simple and heart-felt and honest to say to Douglas without scaring him into booking another room at his own expense. _Thank you,_ perhaps, or _I appreciate your friendship_ or _That’s very good of you_. But all he could do was stare into Douglas’ carelessly handsome face and then – to his horror – he reached out, slowly, tentatively – _Oh God, STOP!_ – and placed his hand on the nape of Douglas’ neck, leaned forward, and kissed his mouth.

It was a soft kiss, timid and chaste, and as Martin pulled back, he saw with growing agitation that Douglas was staring at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted an extra head. Misery shriveled his insides, he opened his mouth to stammer an apology, and then Douglas’s hands were cradling Martin’s face, and he was kissing back – lightly, sweetly, his hands gentle on Martin’s face, his fingertips caressing the corkscrewed hair Martin hadn’t bothered to tamp down before he’d left in search of Douglas, his tongue delicately exploring the inside of Martin’s mouth. The kiss went on, waning, then waxing, and when Martin felt arousal stirring, he withdrew, a little afraid.

Flushed, Douglas touched the fingertips of one hand to his mouth, a tender and endearing gesture. “Martin…why did you do that?”

“Because,” Martin said, floundering for a reply. “Because I…I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

Douglas sat back on his heels. “Good God.”

Martin had no idea how to interpret that. Douglas looked utterly stunned. _Oh God. What if it was just some sort of…reaction? He’s kissed a thousand stewardesses and God knows who else, maybe it was just instinct to kiss back._ “Douglas, I’m – I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was –“

“Did you know?”

“Did I – did I know what?”

Douglas’ face was devoid of any discernible expression. “Did you know that I was absolutely crazy about you?”

Martin felt all the blood leaving his face. “You are?”

“You didn’t?”

“I – no. You had all those stewardesses.”

“That’s true,” Douglas agreed gravely. 

“I love you,” Martin blurted. _What a Romeo you are, Martin Crieff._

A grin creased Douglas’ face. “Well. Since I’ve more or less confessed my undying adoration for you, all I can say is that I’m rather glad to hear it.”

Martin hesitated a split second, then all but launched himself at Douglas. They half-tumbled sideways, landing on the floor between the beds. Martin kissed him ferociously, wrapping his arms tightly around Douglas’ body. So solid, so warm, and he smelled divine. A gasp escaped him as Douglas’ teeth grazed his collarbone and his tongue traced the hollow of Martin’s throat. He nibbled on Douglas’ earlobe and down his neck, hoping enthusiasm would make up for his lack of skill. It was only when he felt Douglas’ erection brush against his own that he stopped, skittish as a colt. Awkwardly, he pulled away. “Douglas, I – bloody buggery hell, I’m sorry. I’m not….”

“You’re not ready.”

“I am, but – but—well, I suppose I’m not. Not quite yet. God, I’m sorry.”

Douglas brushed the back of his hand over Martin’s cheek. “Martin, I am a grown man. I am perfectly capable of waiting.”

“I don’t want to make you wait.”

“What if I wanted to?”

Martin stared down at his hands. No-one had ever put him first, ever, and he had no idea how to respond. “B-but it could be a while.”

“How little you know me, Martin Crieff,” Douglas said. “Surely you must realise that anyone who’s worked at MJN Air for more than six months must be possessed of superhuman – nay, saintly patience.” He laid his hand atop Martin’s. “I am prepared to wait as long as you like – as long as I can kiss you now and again.”

Martin kissed him again. _All those stewardesses,_ he thought fuzzily, _fantastic practise_. At length he found himself resting against Douglas’ chest, wrapped in his arms, but instead of feeling constrained, he felt wonderfully warm and safe. “Isn’t this awfully sudden?”

“Oh, I don’t know. These things have a way of sneaking up on one at times.”

“I think I’ve known for a long time.”

“Really? How long?”

“Since Spain, when Arthur and I got stuck under a bridge.”

Douglas paused. “Should I even ask for a detailed explanation?”

“Probably not,” Martin laughed. “All you need to know is that I realised how much I…I relied upon you. And it wasn’t any sort of awful obligation or anything, it – it was just that even when you’re being…you know, _awful_ , you’re – well, to use an Arthurism – brilliant.”

There was silence for a moment. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Oh, stop it.” Martin felt himself flushing. He didn’t speak for a moment. “It’s true,” he mumbled finally.

“I know. That’s why I said it.”

Martin beamed. “We should probably get some sleep,” he said.

“Yes, it is rather late.”

“Would you…would it be uncomfortable if I slept with you? I mean, in bed, with you. I mean –“

“I’d love it.”

Martin bit his lip. This was a night of firsts. He’d never been so bold. “And you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t –“

“Absolutely not. I’ll simply douse myself in cold water.”

“Oh, you don’t have to –“

“Martin, I’m joking. Get into bed.”

They climbed into bed, and Martin found himself in Douglas’ arms again. “This feels so nice.”

“Yes.” Even Douglas sounded a little awed. “Yes, it does.”

“I expect I’m not the first man you’ve been with.”

“Certainly not,” Douglas said. “I’ve had my share of fellow sky gods before.”

“I don’t suppose I qualify,” Martin said sleepily. “I reckon they were all like you.”

“Like me?”

“Oh, you know. Handsome, devil-may-care, confident.”

“Yes, I suppose they were.”

“Thought so,” Martin grumbled.

Douglas pulled him closer and kissed his ear. “Martin Crieff, welcome to the pantheon.”

*


	11. Chapter 11

*

Douglas awoke with an achy spot between his shoulder blades, a sore neck, and an erection the size of a cricket bat pressed up against Martin’s arse. All right, maybe not _quite_ the size of a cricket bat.

Almost.

How long, he wondered, had it been since he’d been denied the lovely inevitability of nudging awake his partner of the moment for a leisurely morning shag? Surely it had been decades – yes, at school, with a sexy little townie piece named Wendy who’d refused to succumb to all the suavity and charm of his fourteen years. He’d had a wank now and then since, but the necessity of it hadn’t really pressed itself upon him until now. With consummate good taste, Douglas had always chosen partners who’d been most deliciously acquiescent.

He eased himself backward and rolled out of the bed, careful not to disturb Martin, who slept peacefully, curled up on his side – unlike earlier last night, when he’d tossed and turned and made noises like a small, hurt animal so that Douglas, who’d tried to gently rouse him and failed, had finally fled, shuddering with guilt. He’d shared enough rooms with Martin in the past to realise that this was a new state of slumber for him; small wonder the dark circles under his eyes hadn’t subsided, if his sleep was so troubled. Douglas had stayed in the courtyard, hoping to delay long enough for Martin to fall into a deeper sleep, amusing himself and a few of the customers on the piano, when Martin had showed up, looking lost. But when he’d seen Douglas, he’d smiled, and his eyes had lit up as if Douglas were…well, as if he were the love of Martin’s life. 

And if Douglas had been staggered by the depth of feeling provoked by that shy, sweet smile, he hadn’t let on. Since Helena had left him for the t’ai chi teacher, he’d fancied himself deeply cynical, vampire-cold and untouched by emotion, but the truth was much different, a truth never acknowledged aloud: Douglas Richardson was a hopeless romantic. No-one who’d been married more than twice could be anything but. One didn’t get married thinking it _wouldn’t_ work out, after all; hope sprang eternal in his heart, bruised and overworked and…yes, selfish as it was. But dear God, who could have predicted it would be a twitchy, fussy airdot captain to steal that same heart, a man who not only played by the rules but rewrote them if they weren’t meticulous enough for his taste? And how long had that been building up, by the by? 

Maybe from the very first; no matter how much Douglas had teased him about the gold braid on his cap or his insistence on making sure everyone knew he was an airline captain or his ridiculous ersatz Patek Philippe, there was a part of him that had begrudgingly admired Martin’s ferocious integrity, his resilience, his toughness, and his refusal to let life keep him down when it would have defeated lesser men. That he managed to combine all that with a really staggering lack of self-esteem made him a rather delightful paradox. Maybe, too, part of the reason he’d teased Martin so was to watch his reactions: his face flushing, his chest heaving, his prettily slanted eyes widening in indignation and outrage. It was far too much fun to deny himself that particular pleasure. And now he considered Martin’s full mouth (sexy, it was dead sexy now that Douglas was really looking at it, and now that he’d explored it a bit) as it seemed to curve in a little smile as he slept, and the way his frown lines smoothed out and he looked absurdly young, like a teenager and how his tight arse had felt against Douglas’ body and _oh God_ he needed a wank immediately, if not sooner.

Douglas ducked into the bathroom and ran the shower. He stripped quickly, stepped inside, and curled his hand round his cock. God only knew how long he’d have to do this, but he didn’t mind – there was a strange sort of pleasure in it, and in any case it wouldn’t last forever – he hoped. He stroked and rubbed, letting the warm water sluice over his body, reveling in delicious friction, thinking about fucking Martin Crieff into the mattress, flushed face, heaving chest, wide eyes, and all, and came with a suddenness that startled him. _Off like a bloody rocket._

He leaned against the cool tile of the shower, collecting his breath, and then cleaned up and shampooed his hair, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. When he left the bathroom, Martin was still sleeping, still in the same position, the little smile still fixed on his face. His hair had separated into a dozen cowlicks and the blankets had worked their way down to his boxer-clad backside. For a moment Douglas stared at Martin’s body and longed to crawl back into bed and spoon again, but forbore – quite heroically, even if he did say so himself. He sighed, drew the covers up about Martin’s shoulders, and permitted himself a gentle caress of the springy curls made curlier by the damp salt air.

Moving quietly, he dressed and went to the balcony with his mobile, closing the door carefully behind him. He looked up a number and made a call.

“ _Allo_?”

“Miranda darling, did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Douglas! My God, what on earth are you doing calling me? I haven’t heard from you in yonks. How are you, love?” All pretense at a Continental language dissolved instantly, and she was the same noisy, flashy London bird she’d always been. 

Some things never changed. Still, Douglas was pleased; he’d caught her in one of her benevolent moods. Maybe her present husband had just given her a yacht or a ruby necklace. “Just fine, thank you. Look here, Miranda, I’ve a tremendous favour to ask of you.”

“Of course you do. Why else would you be calling?”

Why else indeed? She’d probably end up screaming blue bloody murder at him. That had been their marriage in a nutshell. Still, the make-up sex had been absolutely terrific. “Well, it so happens that this favour is right up your street. And I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh, darling, just tell me what it is.”

“It’s about a faux Hermès handbag.”

*

Martin was still asleep when Douglas re-entered the room. Douglas hated to wake him – clearly poor Martin had needed a good night’s sleep for a long time – but they had to check out and find some food and get to the airfield in plenty of time for their four o’clock departure, and it was half eleven already. Not wanting to startle Martin, Douglas laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Captain Crieff. Up and at ‘em. It’s getting late.”

Martin opened his eyes and looked up at Douglas. “Hello,” he said in a voice made rusty with sleep, and rubbed at his eyes.

 _Bloody hell. Dead sexy indeed._ “Well, you’ve done it now,” Douglas said, and leant down to kiss Martin’s mouth briefly. As he straightened, he saw Martin offering him an improbably wide smile. “And what’s that for?”

“I…I woke up and you weren’t here. I heard the shower running, and I thought maybe I’d dreamt the whole – that I’d dreamt what happened last night. I reckoned I’d keep on sleeping because it was an awfully nice dream.”

It really wasn’t fair for Martin to disarm him with sweetness, Douglas reflected; he’d lose all his best comebacks if he remained in this besotted state. “Funny – I think I had the same dream.”

“Could you – c-could you kiss me again? No, wait – I probably have horrible breath, never m—“ 

Douglas silenced him with a deep kiss, easing him back to the bed and straddling his body. His prick was starting to stand to attention again. Martin twined his arms round Douglas’ neck and pulled him closer, and his thighs gently clamped round one of Douglas’ legs and tightened. Douglas groaned. 

“Sorry,” Martin whispered, and pulled back awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“You’re a dreadful temptation.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not,” Douglas lied with perfect aplomb, and sat up. He’d have to look into a few Eastern techniques on self-control if he didn’t want to walk around with a raging erection half the day.

Martin’s hands fidgeted with the bedclothes for a moment, arranging them over his boxers to conceal his arousal. “It isn’t that I don’t want to.”

“Excellent. My fragile crystal zeppelin of an ego remains blessedly intact.”

“I do find you really attractive.” Martin’s eyes fastened on Douglas, and then flicked downward, then up again. “Really very attractive.”

Douglas experienced a tiny jab of – what could it be? He scarcely knew what to call it. Martin Crieff was _ogling_ him, in his way. Most extraordinary.

Life really was full of surprises.

Douglas leant over and kissed that full mouth again. “Let’s go, chief. Time to fly.”

As Martin showered, Douglas heard him singing – softly, then with growing confidence.

_So kiss me and smile for me  
Tell me that you'll wait for me  
Hold me like you'll never let me go  
Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane  
Don't know when I'll be back again  
Oh babe, I hate to go_

*

“Afternoon, all,” Douglas said, strolling into the Portakabin. “Goodness, isn’t it hot outside!”

“And in here,” Martin muttered, mopping his damp, red face with his handkerchief. “Air conditioning’s gone on hiatus again.” Douglas winked at him, earning a shy, beaming smile in response.

Carolyn snorted from behind her newspaper. “If you deigned to show up on time, Douglas, we could be in a refreshing, cool aeroplane jetting our way to refreshing, cool Norway, but as usual, you seem to be operating on Douglas Mean Time, of which you are the sole occupant and which evidently consists of some sort of lag in the space-time continuum. Lucky for you, Mr. Svelha’s meeting has run late and Arthur’s just gone to fetch him now.”

“Good heavens, Carolyn.” Douglas checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes at most. Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Hammerfest,” Martin said. 

“Ah.”

“Arthur’s delighted. He thinks it’s a nonstop festival of hammers.”

“And who are we to say it’s not? Shall we fetch one for him?” Douglas inquired. “I could tell him it’s customary for travellers to throw a hammer upon setting foot –“

“Absolutely not,” Carolyn barked. “I can only imagine where it would land. Oh, dear!”

“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

“Good Lord. This isn’t too far from my house,” Carolyn said, and spread the newspaper on the table for Douglas and Martin to see. “One of those vulgar gated communities that are supposed to keep the wrong element _out_. Ha!”

Douglas leaned over to see the headline: _Drugs Raid Nets £26 Million in Cocaine_. It seemed the police, after a three-month investigation, had placed under arrest one Edward Groves, aged thirty-seven, at his home in the gated community known as Riverbend. He glanced at Martin, who had gone very white, and surreptitiously reached over and squeezed his hand.

Martin squeezed back and bit his lip. “Do you think he’s – he must be very, er, powerful….”

“Well, he’s in prison now, and I say good riddance to bad rubbish,” Carolyn said, rising to her feet. “You gentlemen have work to do, I believe. I want to be in the air ten minutes after Mr. Svelha arrives.” She departed the Portakabin like a ship under full sail.

Douglas rested a hand on Martin’s back. “You all right?”

Martin nodded, but dragged his fingers through his hair, his face twisted in agitation. “You don’t suppose he’ll – that he’ll come after us, do you?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” Douglas rubbed his hand up and down Martin’s back in an attempt to soothe him. “It says the investigation’s been going on for months now. I doubt he’ll be able to connect it with us at all.”

“What do you mean…’be able?’” Martin stared up at Douglas. “Good Lord, did you tell the police after all?” His face grew whiter still.

“Nothing like that. I simply phoned Miranda and asked her to purchase a gently used Hermès Birkin handbag from a particular consignment website and then take it to the Hermès shops, where she is already a loyal and favoured customer, for authentication. Naturally, it couldn’t be authenticated, so an investigation proceeded to commence.”

“But…Douglas, you were the one who transported them. Weren’t you afraid that you’d be implicated?”

“Well, as it happens, my very good friend François is in charge of customs at Orly, and he was able to produce tax documentation for a delivery of consignment goods from a legitimate dealer – a dummy corporation, actually, under the aegis of Eddy Groves. So my name, fortunately, never came up at all. It was a perfectly legal transaction, as it turned out. It just wanted a little digging to turn up the worms.” 

Martin stared at the paper. “He’s in prison.”

“And likely to stay there.” _And likely to be on the receiving end of some rather bad treatment, I hope._ Douglas would never say that aloud. But God, he hoped it was true.

Martin turned and gazed up at Douglas wonderingly. “You…you did that for me?” 

Douglas’ throat caught on his _yes_ , but before he could clear it to speak, Martin got up quickly, knocking his flimsy chair over, and threw his arms round Douglas’ neck, pulling him into a kiss. Douglas wrapped his arms tightly around Martin and returned the kiss, light-headed with euphoria. _It doesn’t pay for everything, but it’s a start._

“Thank you. Thank you.” Martin kissed Douglas’ neck and ear. “I love you.”

“And I love you, Captain Crieff.”

“Enough to call me ‘sir?’”

“Certainly not. Wild horses couldn’t drag that from me.” Douglas threaded his fingers through Martin’s hair and delivered his most devastating kiss, only letting go when he felt Martin’s knees buckling. _Well done, Douglas._

Martin’s face was bright pink again. “Well. We’ll have to see about that.”

Arthur burst into the Portakabin. “Chaps, Mum says that if you don’t get on board GERTI now, she’ll --“ He stopped dead, staring at Douglas and Martin in a most decided clinch. “Are you two kissing?”

Martin pulled away and coughed. “Er – never mind that, Arthur. Yes, okay.” He settled his cap on his head. “I’ve done the walk-round, Douglas. Let’s –“

“All right.” Carolyn stormed in behind Arthur. “That tears it, you two. I was going to spring for separate rooms in Hammerfest tonight, but you can forget about it.”

“That’s quite all right, Carolyn,” Douglas said. “We’ll be delighted with the single room. Won’t we, Martin?” After a few months, they’d progressed from cuddling to a sort of teen-aged groping; slowly, slowly, Martin was coming round. Douglas couldn’t complain. The last few months of exploration had been nothing short of fantastic.

“Why, yes,” Martin said. “Yes, we will.” He glanced at Douglas, then at an indignant Carolyn and a beaming Arthur (where it concerned the human heart, Arthur was not a clot. Not in the least), tilted his cap back on his head, reached up, and drew Douglas into another kiss. “I can’t wait,” he whispered.

“Nor can I,” Douglas said, and kissed his captain again.

_Douglas Richardson, you are a lucky, lucky man._

The End.


End file.
